


Millstone

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4576524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris accompanies a squadron of templars under Cullen's command to destroy a group of blood mages marching on Calenhad. In the blood mages' camp he discovers something that will strain his and Hawke's already frayed relationship with the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Same universe as the After Kirkwall series (happens afterwards, and thus post-Inquisition) but largely unrelated. All you need to know is Fenris’s lyrium got an upgrade and Dorian knows all about it. Also Hawke hates Dorian.
> 
> No tags because any tag would be a spoiler and dramatic tension is very dear to me. If you think I should tag it, leave me a comment and we'll talk!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First chapter is a prologue.

Hawke cocks his arm back and throws the blade.

Another perfect strike, the newest in a parade of twelve narrow throwing knives dividing in half the pure-white trunk of a poor innocent aspen. The last knife is buried only inches above the knee-deep snow. He wades over to collect them, having exhausted his supply.

He’s bored out of his mind.

Not much to do in Brandel’s Hollow. It’s a smaller town even than Lothering was. And he doesn’t have any friends here either. Cullen’s out. Fenris is out. The only person he  _does_  know who stuck around is—

“Aren’t you the least bit cold?”

Hawke contains a groan.

The Tevinter shuffles over, bundled in—Hawke isn’t sure how many layers. Tevinter style is…abstruse. “No,” he replies, and tugs a knife from the firm wood of the aspen.

“Fereldans,” Dorian mutters. “I’m starting to think you’re all sporting coats of fur under your clothes, just like Mabari.”

Hawke snorts at that, despite himself, as he collects his knives. The man’s not far off.

“My goodness. Did you do all that?” Dorian nods at the tree.

“No,” Hawke says airily. “A particularly well-practiced sparrow. Cullen should recruit it.” He slips the slim blades into his belt and enjoys the sensation of Dorian’s annoyed glare boring into the back of his head.

Then: “Looks like you could use a challenge, don’t you think?”

Hawke turns.

The mage is grinning under that ridiculous mustache, which is starting to gather snowflakes from the gently falling snow. Hawke thinks briefly of declining, of being the better man here. He decides against it. “Fine.” Trudges back to his spot behind the wall of the house.

“Excellent.” Dorian cracks his knuckles, a little pool of fire blooming in his hand. 

Hawke plucks a knife from his belt and throws. An easy toss—one that never makes it to the tree. Instead a bolt of flame pierces the air, and the knife is knocked into the snow. All right. The mage has some basic skill. Another toss, a little faster this time, also shot down. Hawke grunts. “So I notice you didn’t go with them.”

“Of course not.” Dorian fires. A successful shot. “Why would I trek five miles through all this horrible snow just to be killed in some no doubt ghastly fashion? Blood magic is dangerous, you know.”

Hawke holds the knife in his left hand this time—his better hand. “Just the kind of inspiring courage I’d expect from a Tevinter.”

He throws. The knife spins out of the hair, snow hissing to steam where it lands. “I notice you didn’t go with them either,” Dorian retorts.

True enough. “I should have.” He readies his next volley.

“Then why didn’t you? Fereldan courage not all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Fenris wouldn’t let me,” he mutters.

Then throws two blades in quick succession. Dorian misses the first—a satisfying  _thunk_  as it sinks into the tree—but he gets the second, even as he laughs. “Truth be told, I volunteered, but Cullen made me stay here instead.”

“Hm.” Perhaps the man’s courage has been bolstered by his time outside Tevinter. “Cullen did seem…rather afraid.”

“Oh yes. Stuffed himself to the gills with lyrium. His templars, too.” Dorian swirls a little wisp of fire around his finger. “Your report was quite concerning.”

Hawke had been tracking them for days. A trail of dead templars, stretching from small settlements south of Denerim, through the flatlands. Each strike happening so fast the Inquisition, with the delay in relaying information, couldn’t keep up.

Hawke could.

Two dozen or so blood mages. Powerful enough to strike as ghosts, unseen, the alarm raised only the next day when their victims were found locked in their own rooms and exsanguinated absolutely, their blood painted on the walls in a red message. The same in every town.

 _YOU ARE ALL GUILTY_.

Hawke could understand that, even with the Circles disbanded, a few blood mages might still seek vengeance for past wrongs. But something’s off about the whole situation. This many, all gathered together, and with this kind of strength—powerful enough to kill templars utterly unnoticed. And on top of that—who knows? That might be the limit of their ability. Or it could be just the bare surface. Hawke had a bad feeling and stayed well back while he tracked them, never once risking the proximity necessary to lay eyes on them. The figure of two dozen he estimated from disturbances in the snow.

Fenris was rather happy about the extra caution.

Hawke guessed their trajectory and sent a message to the Inquisition, so they could assemble a force to stop these mages. Just in time. Calenhad is still the largest templar training ground in Ferelden. And the blood mages will be there in two days.

Hawke throws. Two knives at once. Both shot out of the air. “I should be there,” he murmurs.

“The templars are practically drowning in lyrium. Fenris can walk through most any normal spell with only the smallest of ill effects. Blood magic is likely harder to shrug off, but the principle remains,” Dorian says. “You and I, sadly, are built of more mundane stuff. No shame in avoiding near-certain death.”

Hawke issues his final salvo. Two at the same time, and the last straight after. Dorian misses the third and sighs. “Well, ten out of twelve isn’t bad.”

“No,” Hawke concedes. “It’s not.” Damn it all. The man’s likability is starting to wear him down.

Shouting from behind them.

Hawke turns and strides back toward the main square. The templars must be back. He follows the paths stomped out in the knee-deep snow, slipping between the little houses with their chimneys puffing out woodsmoke. The faint smell of cedar settles over the town, and the scent jogs a memory of— _Lothering in the winter, his mother stoking the fire as Hawke at fourteen runs out the front door to see Bethany landing a well-aimed snowball in Carver’s face—_

He shakes it free. Not now. Now there are blood mages to be dealt with. He enters the square.

This is not a triumphant return.

Templars being pulled off horses, dragged into the town hall, screams and moans gouging the air, not damped an ounce by the steady fall of snow—Hawke makes a quick count. A quarter gone, at least. Cullen’s horse is pacing through the square, and he shouts orders, the bright winter sun gleaming bronze off his helm. Hawke runs up to him, ducking past townspeople hauling injured templars to shelter. “Commander!” he calls. “What happened?!”

Cullen tugs the reins, and his horse draws to a stop, dancing in the snow. “They were—strong. So strong. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen so much power concentrated in so few mages.” He shakes his head. “We left our mark, but…we lost too many. I don’t think we have the numbers for a second strike.”

“Will Calenhad hold?”

“I don’t know. The bulk of the templars there are trainees. I think we bought them some time to prepare, at least. The blood mages won’t be moving right away, not after a battle like that.”

A poor comfort. His bad feeling was right after all. But something is missing. “Where’s Fenris?”

Cullen’s jaw tightens.

No.

“When I called the retreat…he stayed behind to cover our escape.”

Hawke feels his veins turn to ice, crack into pieces. He shivers, hugging himself.

“I’m sorry. I wish I had better news. We’ll speak later.” Then Cullen’s trotting off, shouting orders again.

Hawke stands there for a moment, then spins, heading down the road toward the forest. Something catches his arm, and he halts, controlling himself. “You’ll want to let go of me.”

“Going after him won’t help.” Dorian’s hand twitches but remains on Hawke’s elbow. “He can walk through bloody walls, if he’s still alive he’ll escape on his own. Meanwhile, the second you try and walk into that camp you’re dead for certain.”

The Tevinter is right. Hawke hates it, but the Tevinter is right. Hawke has fought blood mages before, and the cost has always been high. And now that they’re on their guard—

Dorian releases him, perhaps sensing that the frenzy of tension has drained away, for now, at least. “You’ll just have to trust him. And, forgive me if this sounds forward, but I doubt he’d want you throwing your life away for the sliver of a chance at success.”

Of course not. Of course he’d want Hawke to be all right. Of course he stands a not insignificant chance of escaping on his own. The lyrium struggles against blood magic, but their time on the run has nurtured Fenris’s patience, his shrewdness. And Hawke’s passed on a few tips of his own on how to be sneaky.

Or Fenris could be dead.

The possibility skates across Hawke’s mind, and he dismisses it out of hand. It can’t be. Not after everything they’ve been through.

“All right,” he mutters. “I’ll wait. But if he’s not back by tomorrow, I’m—I have to at least get close. See if he’s still there.”

Dorian hesitates, opens his mouth as if to speak. He turns away before he says anything.

Hawke knows what he was going to say.  _It won’t help._

He stalks off toward the town hall to see if there’s any way to lend his aid.

——

The snow’s still falling well after nightfall.

Hawke hasn’t even tried to sleep. He knows he couldn’t. For a while he was in the town hall laying stitches, setting bones, cauterizing wounds. The templars were practically glowing with lyrium than they left. The magic was supposed to break right over them. But it broke them instead. Too much power. Why are the mages so powerful?

Then things settled out a bit, and he had no more tasks to distract him, no more split flesh to slip over his fingers, blood to drip down to his wrists. He stood by the door and surveyed the groaning casualties, unmoved by their suffering. Because he wasn’t aware of it anymore. Instead Fenris’s absence swelled inside him, seeping into every hidden corner, hollowing him until he was afraid the void would expand beyond the diaphanous surface of his soft, weak skin, would crush him gently in its absolute refusal to be contained.

So he went outside, where snow fell infinite from the abyssal sky, and his own emptiness because a small thing in the quiet of the winter night.

Too late to go now. The dark hides him but he still can’t see in it. A disadvantage that might prove fatal. Instead he must stay here. Why did he agree earlier to wait? What did that damned Tevinter say to make him condemn his partner to captivity by those cursed blood mages?

Can’t go find Fenris. Can’t sleep. Can’t help anymore. Nothing to do but bloody pace, block out imaginings of Fenris’s suffering, wring his hands until his skin is rubbed raw. Useless.

He breathes in deeply and lets it out. His breath forms a great cloud that twists and dies in the cold air. The sight reassures him, for some reason, and he does it again, and again. As if he needs proof that he’s still here. Still alive.

“There’s a light!”

A shout, dampened the by snowfall.

Hawke starts running. The soldier is coming the other way, towards the center of town. She gestures behind her, frantic. “There’s a light! Not fire, it’s magic!”

“How many? And what color?” Hawke demands.

She stops for a second, her boots sliding a little. “Just the one. And, er—white, mostly. Maybe a little blue?”

Hawke is running again.

Most of the horses are penned outside of town, but the stable has a few, and Hawke appropriates one—the biggest one, in case it needs to carry two. In his haste to mount he nearly slips off the other side, but he gets himself steady and digs his heels in. The horse snorts and barrels forward.

 _It could be a trap_ , Hawke reflects, as he gallops down the road, snow spraying up beneath his horse’s hooves. They could be using a ruse to draw out the Champion of Kirkwall, take care of him ahead of their attack on Brandel’s Hollow. He decides it’s not likely, although the thought makes him circumspect, and he slows the horse to a canter, squinting ahead. The half-moon reflects off the broad plain of snow, lending some illumination, and he sees a lone figure— _the rest could be invisible_ —struggling forward, with the glint of moonlight off his silver hair—

“Fenris!” Hawke shouts.

The figure stops and looks up.

Hawke turns his horse, and it plunges through the virgin snow. There’s a long, shallow dip just ahead, and Hawke realizes Fenris must have found the river and followed it. A circuitous route, but it brought him back.  As Hawke draws closer, he sees that Fenris isn’t wearing his cloak, his coat, or even his armor, just a shirt and trousers that are soaked to the thigh with melted snow. The lyrium glows through them, vivid white-blue. Damn it all. How did he make it this far? It’s five miles as the crow flies, and following the river—seven, at least—

Hawke dismounts, wraps Fenris in both arms. “Maker, oh, Maker’s blood, I was afraid you were dead—“

“I am not.” Fenris shivers against Hawke’s chest. “Simply cold. We need to talk. I have some important information.”

“Andraste’s ass, Fenris, you escape from a den of blood mages,  _walk_  through the snow back to—listen, let’s just get you inside and sit you in front of a fire, all right?”

“That…does sound appealing,” he mumbles.

Once released from Hawke’s arms, he goes to the horse and slips his foot into the stirrup—which is when Hawke discovers his feet are bare. He never particularly liked wearing boots, but he did it without complaint when the weather turned— “Shit,” Hawke mutters. As soon as Fenris is settled Hawke grabs one of his feet and raises it to the moonlight, praying he doesn’t see the red blisters, or worse, the creeping black of the worst kind of frostbite, where the flesh becomes dead, unsalvageable—

White and waxy, but no more.

“I’ve told you the markings burn my skin,” Fenris remarks. “That was, to some degree, literal. In this case, a boon.”

That’s why the lyrium’s glowing so bright. It’s protecting him. Considering how he shivered earlier, that likely wasn’t enough to stave off the cold completely, but it did keep him from losing his toes.

Hawke grins. The relief is a pair of warm hands that have shaped him again, taken him from the void and made him anew. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“As am I. Now let us return. I have some things to tell you, but…they may not be easy to hear.”

Hawke isn’t sure he likes the sound of that, but with Fenris alive and with him once more, he doesn’t much care at the moment. He mounts the horse, wrapping his arms around Fenris’s waist as they start at a steady walk back to town.


	2. Chapter 2

Once Hawke’s stabled the horse again, he insists on carrying Fenris.

Fenris sighs to himself and makes no protest. The gesture is more for Hawke’s benefit than his own—and the sensation is rather comforting, after all, having spent so many hours alone in those blasted woods, not knowing how close he was to Brandel’s Hollow, how much longer he’d have to keep going before reaching safety. They make their way through the quiet dark, moon-shadows falling across them as they pass between the small houses, until Hawke sets him down in front of a structure of knobby pine and opens the door. “This is where they put me up.”

Fenris ducks inside, ignoring the complaints of his sore legs. “This is not our tent. Don’t tell me you leveraged your reputation to obtain better accommodations.”

Hawke gives him a pained look and follows. “Actually, they insisted on housing the Commander, but he took pity on me after he saw me hiding from a small horde of admirers. In a town this size, you wouldn’t believe how fast news can spread.”

Ah, yes. Such terrible fame. The room is dark, although Fenris’s eyes adjust quickly, and Hawke ghosts past him to the fireplace. “Cullen is still in the town hall with his templars. As is—“ A noise of disgruntlement. “—the Tevinter. Whom Cullen also invited to stay here. Tevinters aren’t especially popular this far south. So they might show up at some point.”

“Good. I will need to speak with the Tevinter.”

Hawke, crouched in front of the fireplace, glances over his shoulder. “What? Why?”

Fenris hesitates. “That…will become clear after you learn what happened.”

“All right,” Hawke mumbles.

The cabin isn’t much warmer than the open air. Fenris brushes snowflakes off of himself and sits beside Hawke, suppressing a shiver. Most of his body is numb. He doesn’t know how many hours he was trudging through the forest, but it was plenty enough, and now, being back here, safe, a roof over his head, Hawke beside him—

—the fire flaring to life at last, the kindling just starting to catch, it’s all a bit much to process. During the trek he’d emptied his mind, let it fill instead with the silence that lay thick over the forest around him. And now there are all these new things to turn over, not the daydreams that might wisp across his thoughts as he walked, but truths, solid and close—

Hawke kisses him on the cheek. “We should get you some dry clothes.”

The sensation of fabric on his skin that isn’t soaked through and frozen is an unequaled pleasure. He takes his hair down and runs his fingers through it. It’s soaked too, from the snowfall. The fire is starting to grow, some of the smaller sticks catching. They sit before it, Fenris leaned against Hawke’s chest (the man is warm, as always, even in such frigid weather), with both Hawke’s arms around him.

It isn’t that he doubted he would make it. Has made similar such journeys before, just after his escape over fifteen years ago, when Danarius’s hired thugs were still hard on his tail. It’s just that he hadn’t expected the return to affect him quite so strongly.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and balls his fingers in Hawke's shirt.

Hawke leans down and kisses him. “I love you too. Maker, I was so afraid you were lost to me. I kept thinking I should have accompanied you in the first place. Or gone to find you when you didn’t come back.”

Fenris contains a wince. As the blood returns to his half-frozen toes, they begin to spark with pain. “It’s a good thing you did neither. You would almost certainly have been killed.”

“Nice to see you’ve got such confidence in my skills,” Hawke mutters.

“Even you have limits, Hawke. As do I. Else I wouldn’t have been captured in the first place.”

“How did you escape, anyway?”

Fenris gazes into the tentative tongues of flame. “I…had help.”

“What? From whom?”

Yes. About that.

“Let me start from the beginning,” Fenris says.

——

Too powerful.

The fact makes itself abundantly clear only seconds into the fight. Despite their massive doses of lyrium, Fenris sees templars fall after just two hits. And dragged down not only by their armor but also this damned snow, they’re far too slow to dodge much of anything.

Fenris is twice as fast as a templar on any given day. Today, at the edge of the blood mages’ camp, he lets the lyrium glow overtake him completely, abandons his flesh in favor of this ghost-body. And when he strides forward, despite the boots he’s wearing, he feels the soles of his feet meet the frozen ground. The snow rises nearly to his thighs but does not impede him. He simply walks through it.

Far faster than any templar. Perhaps fast enough to stand against these blood mages. He must be—he’s the only one who has a chance to turn the tide of this fight.

So he begins to run.

The mages have formed up, the front line occupying the templars while the lines in the back fire off deadly spells free of interference. Fenris decides to interfere. He sprints forward. There’s a shortsword on his back—easier to subsume in the lyrium than the enormous blades he normally uses—but does not think he will need it.

With the bright sun reflecting off the snow, the blue glow that outlines his form is nearly invisible. By the time the first mage realizes he’s there, it’s too late, and he is upon her. Instead of crushing her heart, he goes for her throat instead, so she will not scream and give away his presence.

She falls, her blood wet on his hand, warm at first but quickly going cold in the wintry air. He slides the lyrium back over his arm and chooses his next target.

It doesn’t take them long to figure out something is wrong, that they have another enemy besides the templars. Yet they cannot see him against the snow, and the fear on their faces gives him no small amount of satisfaction. He kills, and kills again, searching for their leader so he may behead the snake. The search is frustrating. They seem to be protecting no specific person, and no one is shouting orders. Are they leaderless? With a smaller group, he might believe that. But not two dozen.

Then he has to start being careful. He’s begun to draw attention.

Spells scythe through the air, red and vicious. Their accuracy is variable, but there’s plenty, and Fenris must duck under them, roll away, his ghost-body intersecting with the snow in a way that is slightly uncomfortable (as with any time he hides himself inside something else) but mostly very cold. Still, it allows him to disappear completely under the thick blanket of snow, at least for a second or two at a time.

“RETREAT!”

Cullen’s voice.

Not a bad idea. Too little damage exchanged for too many casualties. Fenris rises, slipping behind a tent to give himself a moment’s respite.

The lyrium…prickles.

Up his left leg and arm. The sensation is extremely odd. Like a limb fallen asleep, but…more. He turns toward it, and it rises up his stomach, his chest and neck.

“RETREAT!”

No time to investigate now. Now the templars need help. He bursts from cover, sprinting for the front line, which has been seamlessly bolstered by mages from further back. Rather smooth tactics for a leaderless party. He falls upon them, ripping their flesh away. Each blow must be a killing blow, fatal within seconds, else they will simply heal themselves and continue on.

A spell lashes through him. The lyrium strains to shift it, to dissipate it, but he staggers. That will translate to damage later. But only later. Now he must continue killing. Cries of alarm and terror. Good. They’ve discovered him. The templars will become a secondary concern.

_“Fenris!”_

Cullen, as always, reluctant to leave any soldier behind. Fenris releases the lyrium for a brief second, long enough only to shout “Go!” This is a better plan. He can easily get away later, as long as—he makes a messy dodge, and a spell catches around his arm, wrapping it up—but he wrenches back, the lyrium carving away space in the magic, and his arm is free.

As long as he remains alert.

He spares a glance over his shoulder. The templars are still within the blood mages’ range. More time. A little more time. Another spell, one that brushes his cheek and starts to wrap its soft tendrils around his neck. He tears them away, a flare of panic rising in him that’s quickly quashed. His markings will protect him. He dashes sideways until the glare of the morning sun is behind him, then charges forward. Their spells pass him by, flung wild to his left or right. He kills one of them, tacks to take on another—

The lyrium prickles again, twice as strong now, the sensation swarming over his whole body. What? He falters, collapsing to a knee. A menacing ripple of air as a spell sweeps toward him—

—and wraps around his entire body, spectral though it is. Too powerful. He struggles, trying to force the pressure off of him, needing room to work with, to slip away, but it only presses tighter, and starts to crush the air from his chest. He stops struggling, recognizing it as a threat—and he’s right. As soon as he falls still, the spell lets up, if only a little, and he heaves in shallow breaths.

The prickling runs frantic and sharp. He twitches despite himself, and the magic responds to the perceived resistance, constricting around his ribs and closing over his throat. He grits his teeth, tilting his chin up, the panic no longer quite so repressed—

“Hm. I haven’t seen that before.”

A voice that echoes in an open space, its timbre blunt and distorted as if spoken from inside a metal prison. Fenris looks up.

The initial surprise is so great that he loses his hold on the lyrium, and his body is substantial once again, trapped still inside its magical bonds. But he recovers quick enough. This entire situation is starting to make sense. “I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same.” Anders folds his arms.

No. Not Anders. This glowing creature is not the mage.

“Quite a collection of followers,” Fenris remarks, through the grip on his throat. “Although I fear they are fewer now. My condolences.”

“Yes. Those irksome brands of yours have changed since we last fought together. Do you even know what it is you do? The Veil itself knots around you. Stretched taut, prime for tearing. Perhaps if you knew, you would not use such power so heedlessly.”

“If it does indeed irk you, demon,” Fenris replies, “then I shall endeavor to use it more often.”

Vengeance pauses a moment, his gaze losing its imperiousness, as if he is caught up in some passionate inner dialogue which—

But that may not be a bad guess.

“Hm.” Vengeance turns. “We shall speak further later.”

The band of pressure wraps around Fenris’s temples. There’s a lancing pain, sharp and intense, behind his eyes, and when the blackness swells to rescue him he falls into it with no small relief.

——

Warm.

Odd, considering the snow. But not unwelcome. More unwelcome is the constant, very annoying prickling of his skin. He wishes that would stop. Fenris cracks an eye. He is inside a tent. Whose tent?

“You will notice I have not bound you.”

Ah. The demon’s tent.

“Mundane shackles would be no obstacle to you, as both of us know well. I could bind you with blood magic, but that would be inconvenient and you are…unpredictable.” Vengeance is sitting on the other side of the tent, across the fire. “Instead I have chosen simply to dissuade escape. As you are now dressed, I do not think you would make it very far.”

Fenris sits up slowly, waiting for the head rush to subside. They’ve taken his armor and his winter clothes. And his boots. He flexes his toes, swallowing a wince. The spell that gusted through him earlier is making its presence known. A deep ache in his gut. Still, it could have been much worse.

“The mage was screaming inside of me as I stood over you. He begged me not to kill you.”

So Anders is still in there. It appears his own body has been wrested away from him. “Hm.” There are too many unknowns. Fenris keeps his peace. Needs to gather information. It’s time to think like Hawke.

Vengeance watches him out of burning white eyes. “Now he pleads with me to allow him to speak with you.”

Fenris forces himself to remain still, to use his head. What would Hawke do? The demon doesn’t like Fenris, plainly—no thanks to the jibes outside, Fenris reflects, with some amused self-reproach—so to express eagerness would make the creature less likely to bend, that it might deny its prisoner this indulgence.

No eagerness then. A calm bordering on disinterest. “That’s a surprise,” he says. “We certainly did not part on the best of terms.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” the demon replies. “The mage still had conviction then. But his resolve has grown weak. Rotten.” He bares his teeth in a decidedly inhuman expression. “So I rose to take what was promised me.”

“As I recall it, you had been filling in the gaps for some time, even in Kirkwall.” Fenris warms his hands against the fire. A magical fire, one without fuel or smoke. “Although in a more insidious manner. Pardon me—a more subtle manner, shall we call it.”

It’s probably not a good idea to be needling the spirit that incapacitated him so easily earlier, but he has plenty of anger toward it that’s only now finding an outlet. Years ago—almost a decade past, now—back in Kirkwall, he and Anders had only just passed the point of tolerating each other and were, bewildered, approaching something that may have resembled a tremorous sort of friendship. Much to the delight especially of Hawke, who treasured both of them as dear friends, and Aveline, who had nearly raised her blade to them more than once when their arguing threatened to overwhelm her patience.

And then Vengeance killed that mage girl in the tunnels below Darktown, and Anders cast them all away. Would accept no more kindnesses, no more friendships, tried to sever the ones already there. A misguided gesture to protect those he cared for, no doubt (and a gesture Fenris recognizes well from Hawke). Instead, as the years passed by, he grew unstable, afraid of himself, then bitter, angry at everything, wounded by that which would once have comforted him. The demon denied, acting as legbreaker, breaking whatever it could get its hands on as its debt remained unpaid. Striking down the timbers of its own home so it might hollow out what Anders had built of himself and replace the supports with its own body, or whatever the equivalent for a native of the Fade. But, Fenris thinks grimly, the debt will never be paid. It  _has_  been—the Circles are disbanded, and mages rule themselves. Yet still every templar in the south of Ferelden dies, proclamations of guilt scrawled on the walls in their blood.

Not justice. This is vengeance. If the creature was ever a spirit, no part of it remains so. Not anymore. Which means Anders will never be free.

“I once enjoyed the company of mortals,” Vengeance says. “I no longer remember why. Here. I will allow the mage to speak with you. He has been compliant of late.”

Fenris’s anger surges hot and fast. The language is infuriatingly familiar— _you’ve been so good, Fenris, I think you deserve a reward_ —and he wants nothing more than to rip the demon to shreds right there in the tent.

Then the cracks of white fade, and Anders stares at him across the little fire, and Fenris’s anger breaks in half.

Without the demon’s vibrant glow, Anders’s gauntness is readily apparent. His face is drawn, his eyes sunken, his robes nearly hanging off him. “You—you—“

Fenris doesn’t know what to say. Any attempt at comfort would be meager at best, insulting at worst. Especially because they really _didn’t_  part on the best of terms—should he start with  _I don’t, in fact, hate you?_  Even in his head that sounds like mockery—how easy it would be to add  _I may be the only person in Thedas who doesn’t—_

“You’ve changed your hair.”

“Oh!” Fenris raises a hand and touches it, tucking a fallen strand behind his ear. It’s longer now, and he’s taken to tying it back. “Yes. An accident, in truth, but…Hawke called it ‘fetching.’ So it stayed.”

“You’re still together?” Anders’s voice trembles. “Then—Hawke’s here?”

“Nearby. I convinced him not to join the attack. He is rather vulnerable to blood magic.”

“Oh, Maker,” he murmurs. “Are you—are the two of you happy?”

“I would venture so, yes.” Fenris smiles to himself. “Although it was hard enough getting there. Hawke’s had a a difficult time of it since we left Kirkwall.”

“Really?” Anders leans forward. “What happened?”

So Fenris recounts the tale, more generous in in some areas than others—the trials he describes in only the barest detail (Anders looks like he’s had enough of hard times), but the happier moments he pays special attention to. Infiltrating a local Tevinter lord’s manor on the night of a party and, after causing enough chaos to prompt an evacuation, gorging themselves on the abandoned delicacies lain like sacred offerings on the dining tables; coming to Skyhold for the Summerday festival and watching the display of lights, alone on the top of a tower; visiting Aveline and befriending her and Donnic’s adopted daughter by way of teaching the girl how to incapacitate any attacker within six seconds.

The retelling seems to act as a better comfort than any platitudes Fenris could provide. Anders relaxes, the undercurrent of terror slackening. He still looks like one of the risen dead, but Fenris supposes there’s nothing much to be done about that, not right now, anyway.

“That’s good to hear.” Anders has his legs folded up to his chest, and he rests his chin on his knees. “I’m glad you’re—all right. Really. You look well.”

Fenris snorts. “You don’t. Does the demon ever feed you?”

Anders is quiet for a moment. “Sometimes. When I remind him.”

Another tactic Fenris recognizes from Danarius, and his anger rises again, crackling, ready to burn. “What happened to you? How did the demon gain control?”

A long moment of silence, in which they sit there, just the two of them, closed off from the world outside. Then: “It…was only a matter of time.” Anders hugs his knees closer to his chest. “I knew it, even in Kirkwall. After I—killed that girl. Hawke tried to convince me I could master Justice, and I think I may have believed him, on some level. But I knew, I wasn’t—I’m not strong enough to keep a spirit leashed. I tried to isolate myself, so it wouldn’t come back on all of you.”

“Oh yes,” Fenris says drily. “When saddled with a great burden, plainly the smartest plan is not to share it out so each of one’s companions may carry a small piece, but rather to shoulder it all oneself and crack in half under the weight.”

Anders puts together a glare—a tiny smolder of indignation. Maybe there’s some fight left in him yet. “I was trying to protect you.”

“You had seen us in battle. We were perfectly capable of protecting ourselves.” Fenris waves a hand. “But the point is moot now. I apologize for interrupting.”

Anders sighs. “Fine. Anyway, I didn’t—realize, I suppose. How grave it was. How much control I’d lost, not until after I destroyed the Chantry and fled. I should have felt badly—if not about the Chantry, or the fight afterwards, I knew those were coming, then at least about those innocents who were caught in the middle. Those who happened to be in the Chantry praying, or seeking a blessing. Or later, on the streets, who fell to a wayward spell or blade. I should have felt badly.

“But I didn’t.” He stares at his hands, old, muted panic tautening in his face. “I couldn’t—couldn’t find the sorrow, the guilt. It only got washed away as soon as I thought of it. I had lost my compassion. Me, a healer! I was—disappearing, from inside myself. I tried to flee to the Anderfels but found myself going east instead, seeking out templars to kill them. And each death was—withheld from me. I could not feel its gravity, the weight of taking another person’s life. To Justice they were no more than flies to be swatted. But the killings didn’t satisfy him. Not even a little. Still, he kept going. I kept going. I would try to sleep and wake up only minutes later, would walk across marshes, forests, mountains until my feet blistered and bled, yet I wouldn’t even think to heal myself.

“So one day I tried to fight. One last time. There wasn’t any particular reason for choosing that day. I was just…tired, I think. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself I could still resist. Maybe I knew I would lose and just wanted it to be over with.” He shrugs with one thin shoulder. “And that’s when I lost control completely. Nothing changed after the Circles were disbanded. Why would it? Instead Justice just sought out those who were still angry, who still wanted to punish the templars for their crimes. He promised them power for the chance to pass judgement. And he gives them power. You’ve seen what they can do.”

Fenris nods, thoughtful. “Your proximity lends them strength.”

“It does.”

He stows the fact away for later consideration. “And you’ve no more control? At all?”

Anders shakes his head. “Sometimes he’ll let me—be myself again. And when he tries to…lock me away once more, I can hold him back. But only for a few seconds, at most. And if I do he…punishes me.”

Fenris exhales to calm himself before he asks the question. “How?”

Anders is quiet for a moment, his jaw tight, his eyes shining. “He…takes away some of my memories.”

 _Still. Be still._  Fenris lets the words fill his head so the anger can’t. He must force himself to remain just as he is, shivering slightly not with the cold but with the effort of not snarling out the blackest curses he knows at the despicable entity keeping the mage hostage.

“I’m sorry.” Anders smiles, a twisted, faltering thing, and scrubs at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to vomit out all this self-pity in front of you. I know you’re not particularly fond of me.”

The same tactics.  _Who would like you? You’re nothing_. “Perhaps in the past. But that is the past.”

Anders looks up, genuine surprise blooming on his face.

Curse that demon. “You forget we had almost managed to become friends once. Circumstances drove us apart, but circumstances change. As for our most fundamental disagreement—I have lost the taste for arguing it.” He shrugs. “Mages will be free or they will not. It matters little whether or not I like it. It seems to me rather like complaining about the weather. And anyway—“ He smiles to himself. “I have smaller things to worry about these days.”

Anders is gazing at him with a sort of wretched hope. Fenris, out of some instinct, or memory, reaches out. But Anders flinches back, with a whimpered “Please—“

Fenris freezes. “What? What is it?”

“No. Not—I was asking Justice if he would allow it.”

 _I do not care what the demon thinks_. But he does, if Anders is the one who will be punished. Finally Anders nods, so Fenris leans forward.

Takes his hand.

Anders is skin and bones, pale, his fingers wasted away so his knuckles become knobby and awkward. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You must think me weak for letting Justice take me. For giving in.”

“Not at all,” Fenris replies. “Everyone likes to think that with enough determination, they can overcome anything. Claim victory. Prove their strength. But that just isn’t true. There are things a person cannot overcome, regardless of their determination.” He presses Anders’s hand between both of his own. “Not alone, anyway. You are neither weak nor at fault, no matter what the demon wishes you to believe.”

He watches the confusion on Anders’s face, the start of a struggle he himself remembers well. Which thoughts were his own? And which were the ones Danarius had planted there, masquerading them as self-doubt when they were only more tools of control? Even easier for the demon, Fenris thinks, with its violative access to Anders’s mind.

“Hawke and I were planning to build a house,” he says.

Anders looks up.

“Outside of Kirkwall,” Fenris continues. “Hawke did not wish to live inside the city. His fame remains his greatest enemy. We had thought to build it near the Vimmarks. There’s a bend in the river, a place where it widens out and the current slows. We will need to clear some trees, but the spot is quite beautiful. Aveline is still guard-captain, and her daughter is a precocious grappler. With Hawke’s tutelage she will flourish. Varric splits his time now between Skyhold and the Hanged Man, I’m told. And Isabela puts into port in the Marches once or twice a year.” He meets Anders’s eye and holds it. “There is peace. I thought we’d have to be running forever. Running, and fighting, and running again. But _there is peace to be had.”_

Anders grasps his hand suddenly, squeezes it tight. Fenris returns the motion. “I need you to hold on as best you can. Do you understand?”

It takes a moment, but he sees the flinch of comprehension. “I—yes. Yes.”

“Good.” Fenris takes his hands back. “Remember you are not at fault. If you cannot trust yourself on that, trust me.”

Then he invokes the lyrium and starts to run.

The entrance to the tent is to his right, so he goes left, sprinting through the rear wall of the tent and into the forest. No shout of alarm from behind him. Anders is fighting the demon back.  _Hold on as best you can_. Just a few seconds’ head start. That’s all he needs. He doesn’t bother avoiding the branches or trees, just lets them pass through his insubstantial body as he pushes off the frozen ground.

A strangled cry of agony.

Anders will pay for this. The demon will see to it. Fenris regrets that, but he needed to escape, and if the demon had been in control it would simply have bound him again. He hears the distant bellow in that odd, distorted voice. “The elf has escaped! Find him!”

Too late. Fifty yards away and near invisible against the snow. They won’t catch him, as long as he keeps running.

So he runs.

——

The sun is low. Fenris assembles a map of the area in his head. West. The river should be west of the camp. And then follow it upstream, to the southwest, to reach Brandel’s Hollow.

He points himself toward the setting sun and starts walking.

Maintaining the lyrium’s hold on his body isn’t particularly difficult, just uncomfortable. Always the vague feeling like he’s going to fly apart into a million particles of white-blue light, like a swarm of fireflies coated in ice. When the feeling, the fear that he’s going to dissolve, starts to overwhelm him, he steels himself and lets the lyrium go.

 _Cold_ , cold, _venhedis_ , curse this frozen country. The going is much harder this way—he must plant his feet (his bare feet) in the snow and, with each step, sink in past his knee. Chunks of white flakes stick to his trousers and start to melt. And it’s still snowing. Of course. He jams his hands under his arms and wades forward.

As he goes he turns the situation over in his mind, prodding it, teasing it out. At some point he notices his skin is burning, and finds his markings are glowing bright. It’s not a particularly pleasant sensation, but it’ll keep him from having to become a ghost simply to prevent his flesh from freezing. One less thing to worry about. Although he has no doubt the constant burning, the lyrium consuming energy every second, will leave him exhausted.

It matters not. He must return to Brandel’s Hollow. There is no option. How many miles is it? Perhaps two to the river, and another four or five to the town.

He forges ahead. A long journey yet.

——

The fire is robust now, crackling away. The small cabin smells like—something. Some kind of tree that only grows in colder climates. What was it called? Cedar. That’s it.

“Anders is alive,” Hawke says.

“Yes,” Fenris replies.

“But—Vengeance. Vengeance has him.”

“Yes. I—“ He hesitates. The plan is precarious at best. “I want to try to kill the demon and save him.”

“What?” Hawke looks down. “Can you do that?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I was thinking about when the creature first spoke to me. It commented on my markings, implied I was being reckless with them. I don’t think that was true—I think it felt threatened. By what I could do.” Fenris stares at his palm, at the lines inscribed there. “I just need to figure out how to hurt it. Which is why I must speak to the Tevinter. As soon as possible.” He extracts himself from Hawke’s arms and starts to rise.

Hawke scrambles to his feet. “Fenris, you can’t just—“

Fenris doesn’t hear the rest. The head rush is so intense that he doesn’t quite black out but instead simply loses awareness of his own body, of the sounds around him, of anything but a smear of flickering orange in his vision.

When he can move again he becomes aware Hawke is holding him up. That’s…mildly embarrassing. He straightens, mutters “My apologies.”

“Fenris—Andraste save us all. You’ve just fought blood mages, been captured by a demon, escaped, and trekked seven miles through snow up to your knees.  _My_  knees, your thighs.” Hawke kisses Fenris’s cheek. “You are going to eat some food and then fall asleep and that is all. Dorian’s been healing all night, he won’t be in any condition to help you anyway.”

That last point nearly convinces him, but still— “We cannot wait. The blood mages will be on the move again tomorrow morning.”

“No they won’t. They use blood, and even with their magic blood needs time to come back. Considering their next target is Calenhad itself, Cullen thinks they’ll take at least two days’ rest. One, at the _very_  least. And he’s had far more experience than the two of us.” Hawke strokes his hair. “Please take care of yourself. Please.”

Fenris reflects that even if the Tevinter were here to help him divine what power lies in his markings, he wouldn’t be in any condition to use that power as he is now. “I…yes. All right.”

Hawke holds his face and kisses him again. “I love you and I’m very relieved you didn’t die.”

“Save your relief,” Fenris tells him. “There is work yet to be done.”


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris rouses to the sound of rustling.

He inhales slowly and squints across the cabin. Only the barest hint of dawn light filters through the curtains, yet past the squat wooden table Cullen is shuffling from the washroom, half-dressed, rubbing his face. Fenris finds himself thinking how difficult it is to believe the man is still unattached. Then, with mild self-admonishment, he tears his gaze away from the commander’s bare chest. To have let his wanton eyes wander from Hawke. Shameful. The fire is still burning quite strongly; Cullen must have stoked it when he rose. The mage is curled up in front of it, nearly hidden beneath a mountain of blankets. That’s one thing the two of them have in common—being raised in the Tevinter climate has prepared them poorly for Fereldan winters.

“Morning.” Cullen smiles over at him. “When I saw you after I came in last night—I’m glad you made it back. I felt awful leaving you.”

“I did tell you to go without me, Commander. But it matters not. I made my escape.” Fenris tries to sit up, only to find himself firmly restrained by Hawke’s arm around his middle. “You had not returned by the time I retired, yet the sun’s hardly risen.”

“Yes, well. Work to be done.” Cullen pulls his shirt over his head. “I’ll sleep when this is over.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Fenris tries to sit up again, with a more pointed effort this time. He manages to break the iron grip holding him down, and the blanket slips off his shoulders.

“No, don’t leave,” Hawke moans.

Fenris ignores him. Not the first time this has happened. “Commander, I am afraid I must beg your help. There is…unfinished business in the blood mages’ camp.”

“I would imagine so,” Cullen says drily. “We didn’t make much of a dent yesterday.”

"Well—yes. But…there is a complication.“

Now he raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

How best to request the commander’s aid in rescuing the man who killed Grand Cleric Elthina and sent blood flowing through the streets of Kirkwall? “I’ll let Hawke explain the details.”

Hawke groans. “You bastard.”

Fenris stands, unencumbered by guilt. The negotiation will be neither pleasant nor easy, but Hawke is by far the more persuasive of the two of them. “I have other tasks I must complete. Tevinter!” he barks.

Dorian sits bolt upright, flinging blankets away, his mustache grievously ruffled. “What? What is it? Who’s attacking?”

“No one. Wake yourself. I need your help.”

He squints at Fenris, then squints out the window. “But—I’ve only been asleep a couple of hours!”

“And? There are blood mages running free. Until they are killed, we all must make sacrifices.”

“But I don’t want to,” Dorian whines to himself. Still, he’s already shifting the blankets to one side, shivering in the open air. Cullen is dressed by now, and bids them all good morning as he slips out the door.

Fenris tries to head to the washroom, but the journey is aborted by the broad arms wrapped around his ankle. He sighs. “Hawke.”

“Please come back.”

Fenris reaches down and heaves the covers off, gathering them up. Hawke’s face creases in abject suffering as he curls into a ball. It did the job, anyway. Fenris is free, and he strides across the room, dumping the covers on the table. “Sacrifices, Hawke.”

At last they’re all up and about. Fenris wrings out his hair while Hawke scrubs himself dry and pulls on his trousers. “I can’t believe you saddled me with talking to Cullen.”

“Why? You will certainly be more successful than I.”

A resigned sigh. “To be honest, I’m not sure it can be done at all. Although I do have a few tricks.” He grins into the spotted mirror. “You know, for someone who purports not to be interested in men, Cullen responds rather well to flirting.”

A cackle from Dorian, out in the main room. “I thought I was the only one who’d noticed that.”

Fenris exchanges a look with Hawke. The Tevinter wasn’t present at the Chantry explosion, of course, but he will have read Varric’s book (everyone seems to have a copy by now) and he will have his opinions. Some convincing will likely be required.

“You do it.” Hawke elbows Fenris. “You already stuck me with bloody Cullen.”

“I don’t think that’s the best plan.” Fenris runs his fingers through his damp hair. “I’m better at fighting than talking.”

“Oh, come on!” Hawke flings a hand at the open washroom door. “At least you can tolerate him!”

“I can hear you, you know,” Dorian says, sounding faintly hurt.

Fenris ignores him. “I lack your silver tongue. Mine is, in fact, rather leaden. You are well aware of this.”

It’s true. Fenris has neither the skill nor the patience for persuasion. Hawke lets out another wretched groan, then brushes past Fenris to the main room, plucking his shirt from where it hangs over the door. Fenris follows, prepared to intervene should the negotiation come to blows.

Dorian’s planted himself in front of the fire again, his mustache having dried off by now and returned to its usual impeccable form. “What is it?”

Hawke wraps his shirt around his hand absently. “How much do you know about the Kirkwall Chantry explosion?”

Dorian blinks. “Er—five years ago now, wasn’t it? I’ve brought it up with Cullen once or twice, but he was never very eager to talk about it. I  _have_  read Varric’s book, of course.”

Of course. Hawke prompts him. “And what of the man behind the explosion?”

“Oh, the mage with the spirit possessing him? Well, he’s been roundly vilified, as I expect you’ve noticed. Although the situation is somewhat more complicated than that, the way Varric tells it. If you ask me, he seems a rather tragic figure.”

Hawke nearly buckles, instead just rubs his eyes. “Please don’t call his that to his face. He might just sock you in the mouth.”

Dorian half-smiles. “I appreciate the warning, although I don’t think I’ll get the chance. Last I heard, he’d vanished into the wind.”

Hawke doesn’t say anything. Nor does Fenris. Best for the truth to reveal itself. In the silence Dorian’s face falls by degrees. “No. He’s with the blood mages?”

“Not exactly,” Fenris interjects. Hawke glances back and steps away, doubtless ecstatic to cede the floor.

“The demon possessing him has seized control of his body,” Fenris continues. “Instead of poisoning his mind, it now simply locks him away. It allowed him a few minutes’ freedom after my capture so that we could speak. He has no ability anymore to control the creature.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” Dorian stares into the fire. “You can’t un-possess someone.”

“Can’t I?”

Dorian looks up. “You—you can do that?”

“The demon seems to think so. Or to suspect it, at least. It told me I—twist the Veil.”

“That much is true. When you do your, you know—“ Dorian makes a vague gesture at him. “—ghost—thing. It’s somewhat unsettling.”

“Good.” Fenris nods at him. “I need you to show me how to kill the demon.”

Dorian gapes for a moment. “I…what?”

“Show me how to kill the demon.” Fenris restrains his impatience. “By the end of the day. Cullen believes the mages may be moving again as early as tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t—I haven’t the faintest idea where to start!”

“Then it’s a good thing I woke you early.”

“I’ll leave you two to talk.” Hawke slips his shirt on and kisses Fenris. “I’m off to help with the wounded. Pray to the Maker I catch Cullen in an good mood.”

Fenris snorts at the sardonic addition. With half his forces maimed, to see a gryphon landing in the main square would be more likely.

Then Hawke’s out the door, and Dorian’s gazing into the fire again, bleakly resigned. “I suggest a warm coat,” Fenris tells him. “It is cold outside, and this may take some time.”

——

They wade far out into the snowy fields.

“I’d expect it from Hawke, but I must admit I’m a little surprised you’re so intent on saving this man,” Dorian remarks. “The way Varric writes it, the two of you hated each other.”

“Did it really come off like that?” Fenris mutters.

Dorian’s quiet for a moment as he forges ahead. “Perhaps I didn’t read it as carefully as I thought.”

“We did hate each other, for a time. Until we realized we didn’t, to our mutual embarrassment, I think.” The walk is difficult. He’s only just discovered he’s still  _very_  sore from yesterday’s trek through the woods. “Then there was…an incident, and we were fighting again. But that’s all it was—fighting. I certainly wasn’t  _happy_  with him, nor shy about making that known. But it wasn’t hatred. Only anger, that he insisted on forcing us apart.”

“Hm. Sounds like the precise opposite of all my relationships in Tevinter,” Dorian muses.

Tevinter. A twisted, toxic place, yet Fenris lived there for twelve years (or perhaps more before that), and he finds himself wishing to speak of it, as he has not been able to with any Marchers or Fereldans. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. Nobles aren’t supposed to be attracted to the same sex, unless they lie about it, in which case it’s perfectly fine because they can still beget plenty of robust, mage-blooded babies. I never managed to convince myself of that latter part.” He sighs. “I had plenty of rather vigorous relationships while I was there, and from all the filthy nothings that passed between us you’d think we couldn’t get enough of each other. Of course, they never felt anything for me but disdain, or revulsion, or even some amusement, who knows. Because I wouldn’t do as they did—marry, settle down with some poor woman doomed to a life of misery.”

“Hm.” Fenris nods. “The Tevinter nobility is a nest of vermin. Under all that gold thread there’s nothing but filth and poison.”

“Well—surely they’re not  _all_  filthy, poisonous vermin…” Dorian prompts.

“Yes,” Fenris says curtly. “All of them.”

Dorian sags. “And here I thought you’d maybe started to warm up to me.”

Fenris shrugs. “I can tolerate you with no undue difficulty.”

“I—I’m  _trying_  to help, I’ve been learning to heal with both magical and mundane methods, I go anywhere I’m needed—“

“Dorian.” Fenris cuts him off. “You are helping. Even this very morning. But I spent years being hurt by men who spoke like you and dressed like you, who came from where you came from. That is not something I am likely to forget soon, or at all.”

“That much I understand,” Dorian mutters. “Now what’s Hawke’s excuse?”

“We are together,” Fenris replies. “He takes what happened to me very personally.”

“You two do seem to have a rather perfect relationship. I’ll admit to some jealousy.”

Fenris guffaws. “Believe me when I tell you it isn’t perfect. Hawke has a tendency not to accept my help even in the direst of need. And I have a tendency to abandon caution even when he exhorts otherwise.”

Dorian smiles, his good humor starting to return. “And let me guess, at night he steals away all of the covers?”

“Quite the opposite. He grows too hot and piles them all on top of me, so I awake feeling as if someone’s dropped me in a mug of hot tea and left me to steep.”

Dorian heaves a wistful sigh. “One day I’ll find a man who loves me so much he buries me under his unwanted blankets.”

Fenris nods in agreement. “I don’t doubt it. Let’s stop here, I think we’re far enough.”

Brandel’s Hollow is a good half-mile behind them, across the snowy plain. Dorian stops and turns. “All right then. Now we go to work.”

Fenris is pleasantly surprised by the mage’s knowledge of possession. It’s more than Anders himself ever revealed. Dorian mentions a couple of isolated instances in Tevinter, in which a demon would inhabit a mage without seizing control and transforming them into an abomination, as the mage was already doing the work the demon would have done, and it found more satisfaction in watching a human perform these acts. “Really unsettling to be anywhere near them.” Dorian shudders. “Because they were, by necessity, utterly depraved people, of course. But also the demon, without a physical body of its own, had to stay sort of…hooked on to the Veil. Everywhere the mage went you could just feel the Veil all…mangled and frayed. A real mess.”

Fenris taps his lips absently, thinking. “So my own distortion of the Veil, when I invoke the lyrium…”

“Not enough to make the demon lose hold, I think. But a precursor to more frightening things.”

“I don’t want to make it lose hold. I want to kill it.”

“Yes, yes. Now let me examine you again. It’s been a while.”

Fenris lets the mage grasp his arm and go into a sort of focused trance. In Kirkwall he never let anyone examine him for any length of time, not even Anders—he didn’t want to spread knowledge of this vile rite, nor expose himself to abuse through the markings. And he isn’t particularly happy about allowing a Tevinter to inspect him, but he figures the man already knows plenty on the subject, having saved him from red lyrium poisoning a number of months ago. It’s better to keep all that knowledge confined to one person, even if that person is a Tevinter expatriate.

After that they experiment for a time. Fenris becomes a ghost, and Dorian casts a spell or two, then reports on the results. They won’t have any way to run a trial on a real spirit—Dorian flat-out refuses to summon one, especially not for the purposes of testing—but it doesn’t appear to matter, as none of the attempts show any promise. Eventually they take a brief break when the stream of ideas runs dry. Fenris finds himself slightly warm, with the sun now halfway up the sky, and he pulls his hood down. Dorian, meanwhile, is shivering.  _“Venhedis,”_  he mutters.

Fenris feels a twinge of frustration, mixed up with a mild pang of sympathy for the Tevinter. Fenris knows so little about the lyrium inscribed into his own body, and is almost completely dependent on the mage—a Tevinter mage; yet also Dorian bears the entire responsibility for figuring out how to kill Vengeance. Fenris will perform the actual deed, of course, but the great bulk of the work belongs to the mage.

“I’m sorry.” Dorian shivers again. “I was hoping I’d be better at this.”

“Not to worry.” Fenris ties his hair back, up off his neck. “My master spent two decades in research before branding these markings into me and even he hardly knew what he was doing.”

“Yes, well. My considerable intellect and limitless creativity are not yet exhausted. Let us resume.” He gestures. “I’d like to take a look at you while you’re, you know. Transparent.”

Which will mean sustaining the state. Fenris musters his resolve and steps forward, invoking the lyrium so that it steals his body away. He remains like that for some time as Dorian stands, frowning in concentration, fingers intersecting with Fenris’s arm. It’s not very hard at first, but as the minutes slip by, Fenris grows more and more on edge. That feeling, the same one as always, like he’s going to fly apart if he loses his concentration for even half a second. Like he’ll transform from a luminous ghost into an infinite field of stars, never to be a person again.

“All right, you can come back,” Dorian tells him.

At last. Fenris shifts his arm so as not to shear off the mage’s fingertips and recalls the lyrium, condensing down once more into solid flesh. It is no small relief.

Dorian takes a long, deep breath. “Show me again.”

So Fenris does it a second time, and a third, careful in each instance not to accidentally remove any of Dorian’s extremities. “Well?”

A frustrated sigh. “I know what I  _want_  you to do, but I’ve got no bloody idea how to word it. The moment when you become solid again, and exclude everything else— _that’s_  promising. But, of course, it only works on creatures of flesh and blood, and we’re not looking to kill your friend. Can you just—I don’t know—“ He raises his hands as if to grasp something that’s not there, crooks his fingers, then relaxes them slowly, peering at Fenris with faint hope. “…go the other way?”

Fenris’s lips part, but he doesn’t say anything.

_Venhedis._

Dorian’s face opens up. “You—you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I believe so. Although I’m not looking forward to trying it.” Fenris shakes out his arms, as if that’ll help. “I advise you to stand back. I’m not sure what will happen.”

“All right then! Standing back it is.” Dorian plunges through the snow, putting distance between himself and Fenris.

Fenris just gazes out towards the treeline for a moment. He’s always had a bad feeling about this, but the mage made it sound like their best option. And Anders’s freedom is on the line. So he has to try.

Fenris calls on the lyrium one more time.

As easy as ever. It subsumes him until he’s no more than a collection of blue-white light, shot through with the sun’s reflection off the snow. And again the restless shifting, a million dust motes all floating around inside him— _constituting_  him, rather. All ready to disperse into the open air, held together only by his own will.  _Do not scatter._

He waits a moment for the nervousness to go away. It doesn’t.

So he lets them scatter.

The sensation is not, as he’d expected, one of floating free on the wind as dust motes should, but rather—as he’d feared—that he’s been shredded into a fine mist of blood, gore, and powdered bone. His vision flushes a deep, sickly green, and he goes to stumble but cannot move, no more than a cloud now, held together by nothing, driven by nothing, able to do nothing but feel this horrible, wrong  _pain._  He tries to cry out in terror but has no throat with which to scream. So instead he prays to the empty sky just to take him back to how he was before—

—the snow cushions his fall as he thumps down on his back.

He's never in his life been so relieved to feel snow crumbling under his coat and down the back of his neck. To be sure, he whips a hand up—and it blocks the sun, casting a shadow down on his eyes.

Then he heaves himself upright and staggers to his feet, scanning wildly, praying he didn’t kill the mage by accident. At last he spots Dorian crouched in the snow, both hands clamped over his mouth. Fenris trudges forward. “Are you all right?”

Dorian nods and lets his hands down. “Not to worry, all’s well, I’ve managed to keep my breakfast where it’s supposed to be—“

“Will it kill the demon?”

A faintly hysterical laugh. “Well, I certainly can’t imagine why it wouldn’t. I’m astonished it didn’t kill  _you._ You did sort of disappear for a moment there—I was afraid it had.”

Damn it all. This is the solution? Fenris recalls, with amused chagrin, his words to the mage this morning.  _We all must make sacrifices._  “Then we are ready. I will need your help again when I face the demon. It can bind me with blood magic, so I will require someone to break its concentration. Someone who won’t be inclined to just kill Anders and have done with it.”

Dorian stumbles to his feet. “And you want  _me?_  What about Hawke?!”

“He will come as well, but I do not think one person will be enough. If it incapacitates both him and me, you will be the last line of defense.”

“Maker’s  _bones_ —you’re asking me to face down a creature that’s powerful enough to bind  _you_ , alone, with nothing but my wits and my bloody robes to protect me?!” Dorian stares at him in desperation. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps I don’t  _want_  to bring myself to the attention of something that could kill me with the barest twitch of its pinky finger?”

“Has it occurred to you that you may be Anders’s very last chance?!” Fenris snaps. But he stops there as his anger falls away, burned out already. “Anyway, it does not matter whether or not you want to. It only matters whether or not you will.”

Dorian takes a deep breath and heaves a great sigh. Then he straightens, and mutters, “Of course I bloody will.”

“Good.” Fenris turns and starts heading back to Brandel’s Hollow. “Perhaps you were right after all.”

Dorian follows, trudging through the snow. “I mean, not that that’s an uncommon occasion, but—about what?”

“Tevinter nobility,” Fenris says. “They’re not all vermin.”

“Ah.” Dorian flashes a brilliant grin. “See? I told you so.”

Then Fenris remembers something, and he looks over his shoulder, his eyes skimming the horizon. Trees, more trees, and beyond them the white peaks of the Frostbacks spearing into the sky.

“What are you looking for?” Dorian asks.

“Nothing,” Fenris answers, and keeps walking. For a moment while he was floating dispersed, he thought he saw a city, far off in the distance. But there isn’t anything there after all.

——

The horses plunge obediently through the burgeoning dawn.

Fenris hardly slept last night. First the unwelcome surprise that Hawke hadn’t actually told Cullen that Anders was their real target— _if he knew, he’d go after Anders himself, I’m sorry, we’ll just have to deal with it after_ —and then the anxiety roiling in his gut about what he did that morning, and the unbearable thought of having to do it again. If it were just the pain, he wouldn’t be so nervous, but the extreme helplessness was far worse, the fact that he didn’t even have a body to go back to. Hawke’s closeness, as always, calmed him, and he was able to scavenge a few hours’ rest before Cullen woke them all for the dawn march on the blood mages’ camp.

“Almost there,” Cullen murmurs beside him. “Time to split off.”

They have a plan. Cullen will take his templars and stop well away from the camp, calling out to offer amnesty to those who surrender. Of course, none of the mages will surrender, but they’ll be drawn toward the templars, away from the camp—where Vengeance will be hiding. The demon didn’t make an appearance during their first assault, likely to protect itself. If one mage falls, the rest continue on; but if the demon falls, its followers will be stripped of their power. Fenris is counting on it to stay hidden now as well.

Meanwhile, he, Hawke, and Dorian will come over the rise at the back of the camp, kill the demon, and ensure Anders is safe.

They circle around as Cullen’s shouting begins, the camp barely visible far off through the trees, and approach only when the rise blocks their line of sight. When they’re close, Hawke raises his hand, and Fenris tugs the reins, Dorian drawing to a stop off to the right. Hawke slips off his horse and glides forward, his bow slung over his back. Fenris dismounts as well, concentrating on keeping his markings as dead as possible so as not to give them away, in case the demon can sense the lyrium.

Hawke is pressed against a tree at the edge of the camp, and he points at Dorian, then another tree at the opposite side of the rise. Fenris climbs the back of the rise, crouching just behind the top of it. Hawke’s got an arrow nocked, and Dorian’s peering out at the camp. There must be guards. Fenris waits.

Then Hawke nods at Dorian, and they explode from cover in the same motion, Hawke firing an arrow, Dorian a spell. Fenris charges forward, and the camp comes into view. Two blood mages are just at the foot of the rise, still standing after the first volley, but now that the demon’s alerted there’s no time to deal with them, and Fenris must trust the others to hold their own. Instead he aims for the tent between them—

—from which Vengeance emerges, seeming to merge halfway with the snow in Fenris’s vision, the brilliant cracks of light running into the white ground as rivers into a vast ocean. The blood mage to his right falls, stuck full of arrows, and he flings a hand out, sending a red arc slicing across the clearing. Hawke rolls under it and dashes out to the side, but Fenris sees the rippling of the air between them, and Hawke crashes to the snow, struggling to rise to his knees, caught in the same prison that trapped Fenris two days ago. But even those few seconds were almost enough to close the gap between Fenris and the demon, and he hits the bottom of the rise, plunges ahead—

—only to feel his limbs wrapped up, his chest squeezed in an iron vise. He gasps, toppling forward, only just managing to crash to a knee rather than falling on his face. Not enough. Not enough.

“I have punished the mage for letting you escape.” Vengeance gazes at Fenris with dispassion. “He no longer remembers any of his time in Kirkwall. No doubt he would be begging me not to kill you right now. His silence is much less annoying.” Then his fingers tighten.

A noise of pain from Hawke, who pants for breath, bent in half beneath a snow-heavy oak. “No!” Fenris shouts, struggles against this damned magic, willing his lyrium to break it—feeling cracks open up but not much more— “Don’t hurt him!”

Then Vengeance cries out in surprise as lashing bolts of electricity scythe through his body.

Hawke collapses forward, his chest heaving. Fenris renews his struggle, the lyrium blazing, carving out spaces in the demon’s magic. The spell vibrates against him under the stress, but it will not break. Vengeance turns to Dorian, who’s planted himself in the snow with his arms out, lightning wreathed around him. His face cracks open in fear when the demon faces him, but he stands firm, even as Vengeance raises one spasming hand—

The magic breaks. Fenris drags the lyrium over himself, surges through the snow and into the demon’s body. Then, without hesitation, he scatters.

Pain, again, awful and all-consuming, and his vision plunges deep into a thick, suffocating green. But there’s a new sensation, as when he materializes his arm inside someone else’s body and feels their flesh split around him, except now it isn’t flesh but spirit-stuff, rent asunder. It prickles against his skin, his dissipated skin, and tears apart softly, like pulp not quite dried into paper. Through the panic, he hears Vengeance let out a strangled wail.

Then the terror encases him once again in his own body, and he staggers, toppling back into the snow.

A cough from behind him, and he blinks, bleary, sees Dorian crouched, trying not to throw up. Then Hawke’s at his side. “Fenris, Maker, are you all right?”

“I am fine.” Fenris rises, with effort, grasping Hawke’s shoulder for support. “What of Anders?”

But Anders, sitting in the snow, stares up at him with naked fear.

Fenris remembers then what Vengeance said to him.  _I have punished the mage for letting you escape. He no longer remembers any of his time in Kirkwall._ No. He stumbles forward, a hand outstretched. But Anders scrambles back. “Stay away from me!”

“It’s—it’s us!” Hawke, his voice trembling in disbelief. “We’ve known each other for years!”

Fenris waits, praying that he returns to normal, to the man they both once knew. For a moment no one says anything. The silence stretches, unbearable, taut as a mooring line.

Then Anders raises an arm as if to shield himself. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. But I’m sorry for what I did just now, please—don’t hurt me.”


	4. Chapter 4

At first Fenris thinks Hawke is going to step forward, to try and bring back the Anders they both knew. It is, after all, Hawke whom Anders carried a torch for all those years in Kirkwall, Hawke who kept trying to get through to him even after Vengeance killed that girl.

But he doesn’t come forward. Instead he stands stock-still, utterly lost. The sight is jarring—Hawke always has a plan, always keeps his head, always knows exactly what to do.

Not now.

So Fenris approaches, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. “You do know us. Rather well, in fact.” He jerks his head over his shoulder. “In Kirkwall Hawke got us both into a hundred spots of trouble, yet we continued following him, defying all sense and reason. And we argued all the while over whether mages should be free.” He crouches. “Truth be told, I’m somewhat offended you don’t remember it at all. I’d thought I was quite convincing at times.”

“Kirkwall—“ Anders presses the heel of his hand to his eye. “I was…”

“You were there,” Fenris says urgently. “For ten years. You were a healer for those who needed it the most, you smuggled mages out of the Circle, you snapped at me whenever I questioned you for it. The demon no longer has you, your memories are your own. So  _take them back.”_

For a long moment Anders sits there frozen, his teeth gritted in frustration. Good. He’s fighting for it. Fenris stays crouched before him, waiting. The mage is nothing if not stubborn.

Then he looks up. “…Fenris?”

A quiet noise from behind him. Hawke. Fenris nods. “Yes. Do you remember now? Kirkwall?”

“I think so. I mean—I don’t know, there’s so much he didn’t—so much he took away, and it’s coming back in pieces, but—“ He stares at his hands. “He’s—he’s gone. Justice. You—“

Then Anders heaves himself forward and throws his arms around Fenris’s shoulders. Fenris freezes. He’s only ever been embraced by two people in his life—Hawke, obviously, and Isabela, who is generally rather physical in her affections. It’s certainly not something he expected out of Anders. Yet here they are.

“I’m sorry, it’s just—“ Anders sits back, trying with little success not to tear up. “I’ve been locked away in my own head for months, and for years before that I’ve had that— _need_  tearing at me, every second of every day, and now it’s all—it’s gone, it’s just me again. It’s just me.”

Then there’s a spray of snow as Hawke crashes to the ground and wraps him up tight. Fenris shields his face, then rises, brushing the snow off his trousers. “Tevinter.”

“Hm?” Dorian staggers to his feet, clutching his middle.

“Thank you. Your theory appears to have borne fruit.”

“Well, yes, I suppose. Slightly undergrown fruit. Maybe with some brown spots here and there.”

Fenris frowns. “What are you talking about? Is the demon still inside him?”

“No, no, it’s very much gone. Just not—dead, I don’t think. You did wound it, badly, but from what I can tell it slipped through the absolute mess you made of the Veil and escaped back to the Fade. Speaking of which.” Dorian gestures at Anders. “The demon isn’t the only thing you wounded. The Veil around him is so thin one good poke would rip it straight through. I’m sorry, this didn’t happen when we tried yesterday—must be because it was already half-destroyed here.”

“What? Can it be fixed?”

He shrugs helplessly. “I—I’ve never heard of such a thing, but…well, I’m no expert on the Veil. There are better mages than me at Skyhold who may know more. Although…bringing him there may have certain consequences.”

Skyhold. Fenris hadn’t thought very far beyond this moment—or at all, if he’s being honest with himself. But the Tevinter’s point is a sound one. Half of Thedas (or more) wants Anders dead for crimes against the Chantry. A weak point in the Veil  _is_ , by all means, a danger, yet to give Anders his freedom only to bring him before those who would have him killed seems counterproductive, not to mention cruel—

The sound of crunching snow. “Are the three of you all right?”

Cullen, coming around the tent.

_Venhedis._

Hawke’s on his feet again, going for his daggers, which Fenris thinks is excessive until he hears the ring of steel as Cullen draws his sword. A bad situation. Very bad. Hawke will choose Anders over Cullen and the entire Inquisition in a heartbeat, but he’s already pressed his luck with the Inquisition far too hard, and this could be enough send him and Fenris on the run again. That isn’t acceptable. They had just made plans to settle down, after four years, four  _years_  of running and hiding and being alone—

“Commander, put your sword away,” Hawke says, in a neutral tone.

Cullen’s changed since the Chantry explosion, but looking at him now the fact is easy to miss. His face is twisted up in hatred, the threat of his naked blade shining brilliant with the reflection of snow.  _“This_  was what you wanted to do? ‘You all go distract them, I’ll take out their leader,’ Maker, I should have known you were using me—“

“We _have_  taken out their leader.” Hawke is self-possessed once more, and he speaks with respect so as not to inflame the situation. “The demon Vengeance had seized control of Anders and was lending the blood mages power. But Fenris was able to exorcise it. Anders was a prisoner, not an aggressor.”

“You expect me to believe you after you conveniently forgot to mention who your real target was?” Then he turns to Dorian. “And you—you knew about this? You  _helped_  them?”

Dorian raises his hands. “We captured him! Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?”

“Please.” Anders struggles to his feet. “I’ll surrender. I’ll go peacefully.”

Cullen scoffs. “Right. As if you’ll ever make it to Skyhold. I bet Hawke’s already come up with half a dozen ways to pull the wool over my eyes again while he spirits you away—“

“That will not happen,” Fenris cuts in. “Anders will go to Skyhold.”

That does give Cullen a moment of pause. He got on well with Fenris while they were both at Skyhold—as he did with Hawke, but Hawke is by nature unpredictable, which always kept him cautious. Here his caution wins out—or his hatred, or something of both. “I’m sorry, Fenris, but I can’t just trust you on this.”

“Then trust him.” Fenris jerks his head at the Tevinter.

“Apparently I can’t do that either,” Cullen mutters.

“Cullen, you were a templar.” Dorian nods at Anders. “Focus on the Veil. Tell me what you feel.”

After a second’s hesitation, Cullen exhales and goes quiet. Then he flinches, his scarred lip curling in distaste. “What—what’s wrong with it?”

“Damn near everything, I’d say,” Dorian replies. “This man is a walking tear in the Veil. Well, not quite a tear, but the difference is rather moot. It needs repair. And our best chance of that is at Skyhold.”

Cullen doesn’t respond. Fenris watches the leather of his glove crease as he tightens his grip on his sword.

Dorian continues with care. “We’ve captured him. The Inquisitor will hold court and judge him, and he’ll be given a fair sentence. Isn’t that the most ideal outcome?”

This is the decision point. Hawke stays where he’s planted himself square in front of Anders, daggers ready but not raised. He’s got the advantage in size, although Cullen’s well-armored, and it’s hard to say who’d win in a fight. Cullen, meanwhile, stands still as a statue. To yield to the rule of law, or to mete out now the punishment he thinks is deserved—a blade through the heart? Fenris shifts his weight forward onto the balls of his feet, ready to restrain the commander if it should come to a fight.

At last Cullen’s arm rises as if borne on some wire frame, manipulated by an outside force. His longsword slides back into its sheath, the bright gleam vanishing into the dull metal. “He’ll go to Skyhold to face judgement. But Hawke—if I find you’ve broken him out of our custody and set him free, you will forever be an enemy of the Inquisition. You will be hunted, as far as our influence reaches, and it grows by the day. You will never be safe from us.  _Do you understand?”_

Hawke sheathes his daggers. “Yes, I understand.”

He understands, and he’ll do it anyway, as soon as this business with the Veil is fixed. Fenris resolves to deal with that before it becomes an issue. On the run, Hawke fell apart slowly, despite Fenris’s efforts to keep him whole. And it’s only the promise of settling that brought him back. If that’s taken away—no. Fenris will not allow it.

“You may want to hide his face.” Cullen turns. “A couple of the templars here are veterans from Kirkwall. It wouldn’t surprise me if they tried to run him through on sight.”

Then he’s off, wading back through the snow to the rest of his company.

Dorian buckles, leaning on his staff.  _“Fasta vass._  I was sure someone was going to die.”

Fenris jabs a finger at Hawke. “I know what you’re thinking. We are going to talk.”

“Don’t try to break me out.” Anders shakes his head. “Please, don’t risk yourself for my sake. It’s enough to have Justice gone.”

Hawke grasps him by the shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

Avoiding the subject at hand. Of course. Fenris rolls his eyes.

“I—not really.” Anders pulls back his sleeve. “He just—used my blood to bolster his magic. I can heal it.” There’s a long cut up the side of his forearm, and blood oozes out of it, trickling down his wrist. He lays his other hand over it, and moon-white healing magic glows over the wound.

“How about you?” Dorian asks Fenris. “Any aftereffects?”

Fenris glances down at himself. He  _looks_  solid enough, and he doesn’t  _feel_  like he’s going to fly apart in a thousand different directions. “I do not believe so.”

“Lucky you.” Dorian rests a hand on his middle. “I’m going to be queasy for the rest of the morning. Things like that aren’t supposed to happen to the Veil.”

Anders tugs his sleeve down and shivers. “It’s cold, isn’t it? I hadn’t noticed.”

Hawke embraces him again.

This, at least, is a positive outcome. Hawke always blamed himself for Justice’s slow takeover of Anders—as if there were anything he could have done. But Hawke, of course, attends his guilt like a mother caring for an unplanned child. Here, at last, is a chance for him to let some of it go. A little less weight to bear, when they build their house outside of Kirkwall, when they settle into what will become the rest of their lives.

“I’d better go see what I can do.” Dorian turns to go. “Technically I’m the healer on this operation.”

“Hm.” Fenris follows him. “I will help you, if you need it.”

He leaves Hawke and Anders alone. They deserve a moment to themselves.

——

On the way back Anders rides with him. (Hawke already weighs nearly as much as the two of them put together, especially with Anders’s starved state, and it would be rude to overburden the horses.) Fenris remains at the rear of the group, trailing some distance back. Cullen and Dorian flank him. Hawke is leading the way, far ahead, on Cullen’s orders.

“Now I really feel like an ass,” Anders mutters, at Fenris’s shoulder.

Fenris glances back. “Why?”

“If I count up all the hours we spent shouting at each other, it would probably add up to weeks. And then you go and do this for me.”

“This was not an act of charity,” Fenris informs him. “I expect you to repay the debt.”

“What? How?”

He shrugs. “I’ve already told you Hawke and I are planning to build a house by the Vimmarks. Perhaps you could help us clearing trees, after you have regained your strength.”

A small sigh. “All right. If…if I live that long.”

“I do not think your chances are as poor as you assume. The Inquisitor is Dalish by origin. She has worked with the Chantry, but I imagine she shares much of your displeasure with their actions. She may also defer to the Chantry’s judgement, which I expect would be even better, considering that on becoming Divine, the Nightingale chose to dissolve the Circles. As you yourself advocated for, despite weathering heavy opposition. Including mine.”

He ignores a wrathful glance from Cullen, although he does take it as a sign he’s on to something. This may be why Cullen was so close to exacting his own judgement earlier, in fear that the Inquisitor or Leliana would show mercy.

“But sincerely,” Anders says. “I can never repay you for this. You gave me— _myself_  back.”

Fenris is starting to feel some discomfort, being the object of such gratitude. Normally it’s Hawke saving the day, and Hawke receiving the showers of thanks. “There is no need to prostrate yourself so. When an ally is captured, you must try to rescue them. That is simply the way things are. And anyway, the operation served to prevent any more templars from being murdered.” According to Cullen’s report, after Vengeance fled, the blood mages lost a great deal of strength and were easily taken care of. Calenhad is safe, for now.

Anders is quiet for a moment. “I never thought I would be free again.”

“Well, you are,” Fenris tells him. “You had best make yourself used to it.”

——

They arrive in Brandel’s Hollow in the early afternoon.

Hawke hides Anders away in the knotted pine cabin. A couple of the templars demonstrated interest in the mysterious captive on the return. Cullen, his face a stormcloud, deflected their questions while Hawke snuck by with Anders in tow. Fenris, meanwhile, appropriated some funds from Hawke’s purse and went to buy food. Now, standing in the bakery, he tries to remember what Anders likes.

Then all of a sudden he’s struck by a memory that, despite its vividness, he can’t quite pin down in terms of exactly when it occurred. Hawke showed up at his doorstep one morning clutching a brown paper sack but wouldn’t reveal what it was, not until they picked up Anders at the clinic and Hawke, grinning with such joy as Fenris recognized only from children and dogs, shoved the bag forward, proclaiming—

_Sweetrolls._

Fenris wasn’t particularly excited—he’s never been much for sweets—but Anders was delighted. Even if the sweetrolls themselves were rather flawed (Hawke made them on his own). The ones lain out in the bakery on a polished silver tray look much more expert. Fenris buys a half-dozen, then moves on to find more substantial fare.

He returns with arms full and drags the door shut with his heel. Anders has taken that prized spot in front of the fire, which will no doubt disappoint the Tevinter when he returns. At the sound of the door, Anders looks up.

Here, in this close space, without the glare of the snow on all sides, Fenris is struck by how  _old_  Anders appears. He isn’t much older than Fenris himself—only three years, they figured, which should put him now at forty-three—yet he seems older than that. As if the demon, when it controlled him, consumed his years at several times the normal speed.

“What is it?” Anders asks.

Fenris realizes he’s staring. Ill-mannered of him. He sits, having barely set down his purchases before Hawke’s rooting through them. The man’s appetite is formidable. Yet even his eager consumption of Fenris’s spoils seems superlatively civilized compared to Anders’s ravening of whatever foodstuff he manages to lay his hands on.

Fenris should have thought to preempt the question. Instead Hawke gets there first. “Maker’s breath, you’re going to inhale something if you don’t slow down. When was the last time you ate?”

“Er—I don’t know. The past couple of days are still a little disorganized…no, it was two mornings ago.” He takes a swig of cider.

Hawke doesn’t say anything, his gleeful devouring momentarily forgotten. Fenris reaches out and puts a hand on his knee.

Anders realizes a second later what’s happened. “I—no, it’s fine now! I can eat whenever I like!”

Hawke stares at the floor. “I should have looked for you earlier.”

Anders snorts. “I would have fled. There was nothing you could do to help. Or at least I didn’t think there was. Fenris, I don’t know what you did—“

“Nor do I, to be honest,” Fenris remarks. “Suffice to say only that it was very unpleasant and I would prefer to avoid doing it again. Now here.” He digs in his pack and produces the white paper bag from the bakery. “Let us think on more pleasant things.”

The sweetrolls are an unmitigated success. Hawke pulls out one of his throwing knives to cut them up, although with the way he and Anders stuff entire halves into their mouths the façade of civility is rather paper-thin. The Tevinter appears later, exhausted from hours spent healing the wounded. Anders is wary at first until Fenris grudgingly explains that it was Dorian’s work that freed him, at which point Anders relaxes, and he and Hawke return to their merry conversation. He’s being more careful now not to speak of his own trials. Fenris appreciates the gesture, even if Hawke must be able to tell it’s intentional. But it keeps them all focused on the rescue, rather than the events that required it.

They talk for a long time. Fenris doesn’t contribute often—he never quite figured out how to hold a normal conversation with the mage, between all the arguments. He does notice Dorian staring with silent longing at the last half a sweetroll, lying next to the honey glaze-covered throwing knife, and Fenris offers it up as payment for having helped drive off the demon.

Dorian falls asleep despite the animated speech going on only a yard away. Fenris contents himself with watching Hawke, who looks happier than he has in years—as he did that morning in Kirkwall, presenting Anders with that brown paper bag. It is a relief to see him like this. Such joy has been hard to come by these past few years, since they’ve been on the run.

Which reminds Fenris of something he has still to do before they reach Skyhold. 

As the sun starts to slip down, Anders professes he’s tired, and he’d like to wash up and fall asleep early. Hawke droops a little but rolls out an extra sleeping mat as Anders heads to the washroom.

“Hawke.”

He looks up. “What is it?”

Fenris jerks his head at the door. “I need to speak with you.”

So they don their winter gear again and go outside. Fenris takes them to the edge of Brandel’s Hollow, at the border of the wide snowy plain, not wanting to be overheard. The sky, in contrast with the unbroken field of white, is a breathtaking tableau of color, folds of pink and vivid orange piled like rich Orlesian fabric beneath the glowing clouds.

Fenris folds his arms. “You are not breaking him out of Inquisition custody.”

Hawke gazes out at the sunset, towards the treeline. “If only there wasn’t all this business with the Veil. Far easier to do it before we get there, Skyhold’s teeming with guards—“

“Hawke!” Fenris cuts him off. “You are  _not_  breaking him out!”

“I am not leaving him to be killed, or imprisoned for the rest of his life, or made bloody Tranquil!” Hawke fires back.

Fenris stands his ground. “If you try to do this, I will stop you.”

Hawke blinks, clearly taken aback (Fenris feels some small satisfaction at that, at catching him off-guard). “So—what? If they were going to burn that brand into his forehead, you’d just let that happen?”

“No. I would find a way to stop them myself. But I will not let you turn yourself into a fugitive again.”

Hawke just stares for a moment. “You—you’d stop them yourself? Fenris, there are  _dozens_  of soldiers at Skyhold, and you may be an exceptional one but you are just one man.”

“Then you must ensure it does not come to that,” Fenris replies. “You seem to think these dire punishments are a foregone conclusion. They are not. In Kirkwall you achieved just as much by talking to people as you did by killing them. You can do that again. You don’t have to work from the shadows anymore.”

Hawke doesn’t have a retort for that. Fenris starts to relax. “You do not wish to have Anders submitted to such grave punishment? Then see that the punishment is never handed down.”

Hawke thinks on it, as the wind gusts over them, picking up swirls of snow from the white plain, teasing the hem of Hawke’s cloak. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I do all my sweet-talking and the Inquisitor still sentences him to the brand?”

“Then we figure out how to stop it. In a way that does not implicate you in the least.”

“Or you.” Hawke leans down and kisses him.

“Or me,” Fenris agrees. Despite his brave words earlier, he would much rather not make himself an enemy of the most powerful force in Thedas. The solution seems to satisfy Hawke, for the moment.

When they return Dorian is just getting ready to leave again, to lend his aid during the night and allow the local healers some rest. Cullen returns soon after, bearing the same black look he had all morning. Fenris tries to ignore it, to put from his mind Hawke’s words.  _What if it doesn’t work?_ It must work.

He and Hawke crawl into their pile of blankets soon enough. They have, after all, been awake since before dawn. A few feet away Anders lies sleeping, looking pale and gaunt and exhausted and at peace.

——

Fenris dreams that night. His dreams are in green and he has no idea where he is. Voices murmur at him, gentle and intimate but unintelligible.

He awakens to the burning of his lyrium, and tenses, his eyes slitting open. There’s a light on in the cabin, and he squints, wondering if the Tevinter is back. The lyrium burn is strange, acid—and as his mind begins to emerge from the deep well of sleep, he realizes it’s not so much burning, more a sharp, pinpoint sensation. Like—

Prickling.

Groggy, he watches Vengeance take up the throwing knife from where it lay forgotten among the crumpled paper bags. “Ah. You are awake,” Vengeance says, in that odd, faraway voice, and holds the knife just below his breastbone, above the heart. “You took him from me. So now I will take him from you.”

The knife jams inward, and blood soaks into Anders’s robes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so…my plan for the ending changed about halfway through the fic, which means that the ending I was least iffy about references a previous story (Suffering is a Choice and We Can Refuse It) quite heavily in one part of this chapter, despite my efforts to keep this story unattached to my other stuff. I have tried to include the relevant information here. If it still comes off as confusing, it’s my fault and I apologize.  
> Additionally, I changed the fic summary because it had grown woefully inadequate.

Fenris tightens his jaw against the shout of pain that’s threatening to climb up out of his chest. It would not do to show weakness here.

He didn’t have much time to think—only a scant few seconds, as he shifted his drowsiness away like a too-warm comforter, listened to the demon speak. Make a grab for his arm? Fenris is confident of his own strength but has no concept of the demon’s. A risky plan. He had only enough time to come up with one more option before he needed to act. 

The knife is not buried in Anders’s heart. Instead it is scraping his rib, further out to the side. The stab was diverted by Fenris’s hand, now pressed close against Anders’s chest; the narrow blade ripped a gash between Fenris’s knuckles before it dove eagerly between the thin bones and pierced straight through. But the angle is awkward, the knife bent back nearly parallel to Anders’s body. 

It takes the demon a moment to figure out what’s happened. With a noise of anger, it tries to rip the knife out, to make another attempt. But Fenris (with great reluctance) rotates his hand, and the bones lined up close on either side of the blade catch it and twist it, pinning it tight against Anders’s rib. (The mage will not be happy about this when he returns to himself.) Fenris trawls desperately for a plan and casts out the first thing that comes to mind— “Back again, demon, so that I may finish you off this time?” He injects an adrenaline-polished confidence into his voice. “Generous of you.”

It is, of course, a bluff. (Hawke would be proud.) If he becomes insubstantial, as he must to wound the demon without hurting Anders, the knife will be free once more to find its initial target. But the demon does not take the time to figure out the truth of it. Instead he sees its face open in fear, and then the white glow is gone, leaving only the struggling embers of the fire to illuminate the small cabin. 

Anders slumps, his eyes drifting closed, and Fenris grabs a fistful of shirt with his free hand to keep the mage upright. Hawke is there a half-second later to help. “Anders? Anders!”

Movement from the other side of the cabin. Cullen is rousing. If there is one bright side to this incident, Fenris thinks drily, it is that the commander may at last be convinced of the demon’s role in all this, not as an abettor but as the sole actor. 

“Ow.“ Anders winces, blinking sleepily. Then his eyes widen in horror. “No—no, no, no—“

“Try to remain still. This may hurt,” Fenris tells him, and eases the knife out of the wound in his chest. It’s still stuck in his own hand—which hurts _quite_ a lot, and he shoulders the pain aside with effort. There are more urgent things to be dealt with.

“No, he—I didn’t let him in! He was in my dreams but I refused him!” Anders heaves in deep breaths, on the edge of panic. “He shouldn’t have been able to do that! To—use me again!”

“Calm yourself. No one was harmed. Much.” Fenris holds the knife lightly. He will have to take it out, of course, but that will likely hurt even more and he is loath to try it. 

“I’m sorry. Shit. I’m so sorry, Fenris. Let me—“ He reaches out with trembling fingers, takes Fenris’s hand, and starts to ease the blade out. 

Fenris tenses, forcing down the noise of pain. It’s fine. Better to get it over with now. The blood coats his palm and, with the knife removed, gushes now, dripping off the heel of his hand. Then the familiar soft white glow of Anders’s healing magic blooms. Fenris lets out a breath. The worst is over. Soon he will be whole again.

But there’s a sudden twinge and a deep ache in his palm, radiating down his wrist and forearm. The lyrium flares, as it does when shielding him from harmful spells, and he jerks his hand away, cradling it to his body. That, presumably, was not supposed to happen.

“Void take me—I’m sorry, I wasn’t focusing hard enough—“ Anders reaches out. “Let me try again.“

“No, you—“ Fenris shies away. “You should compose yourself first. It will…be easier.”

“Anders, you’re wounded.” Hawke’s voice, soft, taut with concern. 

“It’s nothing. It’s shallow.” Anders hikes his shirt up (Hawke’s shirt, really, borrowed) and displays the cut. It isn’t life-threatening, but shallow is not quite the word—it still bleeds briskly. 

“What just happened?” Cullen asks, at last. 

Hawke explains it, interpreting correctly the events that led to what he saw upon waking—Fenris’s hand impaled on a knife wielded by the demon they all thought had been banished forever. Cullen looks surprised, although not quite abashed. Fenris hunches over his injured palm and says nothing. The commander’s hatred is rooted deep. Fenris knows hatred like that. The commander will grow sick of it in time. But not soon enough. 

Cullen rubs his eyes. “Are you sure you didn’t agree to let the demon in? Perhaps it tricked you?”

“No.” Anders, slumped back against the wall, shakes his head. “I refused. I refused a hundred times.” A sound wrenches out of him, halfway between a sob and a noise of agony. “But he forced his way in anyway. The Veil is too thin, and he—he had me for so long, he knows how to control me, he _knows—“_

Hawke, still putting pressure on the wound, pulls him closer. “We just have to make it to Skyhold. They’ll know how to fix all this—“

“You can’t _fix_ the Veil!” The exclamation bursts out half-hysterical. “It’s impossible! Don’t you think people have been trying for _hundreds_ of years to do it? And they’ve found nothing! I don’t care how many mages you have at Skyhold, it _can’t be done!”_

Hawke hesitates. He isn’t a mage and will never be, and his relationship with magic has always been somewhat strained—Hawke prides himself on absolute control, and he hasn’t even a chance of that where magic is involved. Now he looks up at Cullen, who, as a templar, is the closest thing they have to a second perspective. “Is that true?”

Cullen exhales, shakes his head. “As far as I know, he’s right. But we do have mages who’ve been studying the Inquisitor’s mark—which can close tears created by its own magic, at least. I—I don’t know. I don’t know what they’ve found.”

“It can’t be done, Hawke.” Anders’s voice trembles just like the rest of him. “The demon will always have a way in. And what if it doesn’t just try to kill me next time? What if it hurts someone else?” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s too dangerous. _I’m_ too dangerous.”

Fenris sees the fear on Hawke’s face as he loses ground, as the situation slips even further away from him. “No, Anders, you’ve just gotten free. You can’t talk like that.”

“I have to. Before things get any worse.” He takes Hawke’s hand and holds it tight. “Just—make it painless, would you?”

“We don’t have to kill you in cold blood.” Now Cullen looks taken aback. “There are—other options—“

“What? Cut me off from the Fade? Make me Tranquil?” Anders puts together an awful-sounding chuckle. “I’d rather die properly, thank you.”

Fenris wishes he wouldn’t say things like that in front of Hawke. It is time to intercede. “Might I suggest something?”

They all look at him. Good. But without the conversation to distract him, the bright throb of pain in his palm has returned with vigor, a petulant child denied attention and now screaming for it. Again he pushes it to the periphery with irritation. “Anders, will you at least agree to come with us to Skyhold, to see if they have any suggestions to solve this problem?”

“I—“ He hesitates. “But it’s at least a week to get there. I can’t stay awake that long, and as soon as I fall asleep Justice will come again.”

“You do not need to stay awake,” Fenris tells him. “The demon fears me. If it crosses the Veil, it makes itself vulnerable to my markings. I do not think it will try again while I am there, ready to kill it.”

“So—what?” Anders raises an incredulous eyebrow. “You’re going to keep watch over me while I sleep?”

Fenris nods. “That is the idea, yes.”

There’s a pause while Anders thinks it over, while the rest of the cabin waits, tense and silent. Finally Anders cracks a smile—tired, but real. “You’re lucky I don’t need a lot of sleep.”

Hawke's shoulders slump, the tension going out of them. Good. “One more thing,” Fenris says. “You must promise me that you will not try to take matters into your own hands before we get there. Should you take your own life, Hawke will no doubt blame himself, for some absurd reason or other. And I do not relish the task of consoling him afterward.”

“Right. I promise.” Anders reaches out. “Now let me try to heal you again. I think I can do it this time.”

——

The plan works, as far as any of them can tell. There are no more incidents. Fenris spends the rest of the journey slightly grumpy from lack of rest, but the feeling is attenuated by witnessing Hawke’s joy at being reunited with one of his closest friends. The difference is truly amazing—it’s not just contentment, but _excitement,_ something which Fenris was afraid he’d become numb to. But no, it’s still there, bright as ever. The templars trickle off as they go, reassigned to fill the empty posts left by their murdered comrades. By the time they return to Skyhold, the company is half its original size, and in all the ado Anders’s identity has remained secret.

The afternoon sun has only just begun to take the edge off the high-altitude chill when Skyhold looms. Dorian, swaddled in furs and thick wool cloaks, mumbles, “Maker be praised.”

Cullen gives out orders as they pass through the gate, growling at Fenris to stay put. Anders still rides with him, hooded and silent. After the templars have scattered, Cullen approaches again, Dorian in tow. “Come with me.”

They walk through the courtyard. Hawke rests a hand on Anders’s back. Helpful to maintain the guise of a captured enemy, true, but Fenris suspects it’s largely for comfort. In the shadow of the hood Anders’s eyes dart to every corner of the crowded courtyard. Likely he’s wondering how many of those gathered would kill him given the chance, like Cullen in the blood mages’ camp. The commander leads the way, and people part before him, frightened back by the warlike set of his face. They climb the tower, ascending the stairs, passing the library.

The room at the top once belonged to Leliana, but the Divine Victoria resides in Orlais now, and the only person here is a young dwarf woman who shares Leliana’s flame-red hair. She looks up at their approach. “Commander! I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you!” She leaps out of her chair and snaps into a sharp salute.

“Harding.” He nods. “If you don’t mind, we need the room. Maybe for a few days.”

“Um—sure, no problem.” The woman gathers up a few sheaves of paper, stacking them in her arms. “Ser Hawke, have you said hello to Varric yet? He was just talking the other day about how much he missed you. Can’t stand to see the poor guy so sad like that.”

“Varric’s here?”

That’s Anders. Harding blinks in surprise. “Oh, you—you know him too?”

Hawke slips into the conversation. “He _is_ here? Thank the Maker. He’s the only person who can beat me at Wicked Grace. I was starting to get bored of taking people’s money.”

Harding grins. “What, he knows all your tells?”

“Oh, no,” Hawke says airily. “He’s just the better cheater.”

That gets a laugh, and Harding brushes past them. “I might need a few things from up here—can I still come by and grab them?”

“Ask Dorian,” Cullen tells her. “He’ll retrieve them for you. And Harding? Tell people this place is off-limits, but not a word about why.”

“Considering I don’t really know why myself, that…shouldn’t be very hard.” Then she’s off, down the stairs and through the door. 

Cullen’s face is still set with restrained anger. “Dorian, go canvas the mages. I’m going to go talk to the Inquisitor. She needs to know about this. And, who knows, maybe the Anchor can help fix this after all.”

“The Anchor?” Dorian shakes his head. “I don’t think so. It’ll only undo its own magic.”

“Well, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.” He starts descending the steps. “Come on.”

But Dorian doesn’t move, instead stands frozen, staring with great intensity at a spot on the opposite wall. There’s nothing there, yet he remains fixed as if paralyzed by some malevolent spell. 

“Dorian?” Cullen asks. “Is something wrong?”

Dorian swallows. “I’ve just had a very unpleasant thought.”

“What? What is it?”

“I think I might be able to fix the Veil.”

The room is speechless for a moment, then explodes in a babble of questions. Dorian raises his hands. “All right, all right! One at a time! Please!”

Hawke cuts in first. “How?”

“The Anchor fixes the Veil not by working on the Veil itself, but the magic that split it open. The Anchor's own magic, albeit from a different source.” Dorian sighs. “So by using Fenris’s markings correctly, we may be able to reverse the damage he did. The Veil won’t be brand new again—it was a bit mangled before, what with you having gone so long possessed—“ he gestures at Anders, “—but it should be at least healthy enough to keep the demon from barging through whenever it likes.”

So he can tear the Veil _and_ fix it again? Fenris stares at his hands. What other secrets lie in these markings? But there is no time for that. “Good. Teach me how to do it.”

“Well—that’s the problem,” Dorian says. “You aren’t a mage, you don’t have the innate senses that come with it. When you use your abilities, you can’t tell what it does to the Veil, correct?”

“I…no.” 

“I _am_ a mage. I can sense the Veil changing. So I think, with the enormous quantity of unknowns, and the dangers that even the smallest error could entail…” He hesitates. “I think _I_ need to use your markings.”

Oh.

Not a simple inspection, as Fenris allowed outside Brandel’s Hollow. But instead to _use_ him. Like what was done to him in the sea cave at the Storm Coast, when Hawke was driven mad by blood magic and Dorian was the only one there who might be able to save him but lacked the power. So Fenris offered his lyrium—for Hawke’s sake, for _Hawke_ —and Dorian grabbed him, drew on the markings—

“And considering the complexity of the operation…” Dorian continues. “It may take quite some time.”

Fenris had expected it to hurt. Had expected the lyrium burn multiplied by ten, a hundred, expected such pain as he had not experienced since Danarius’s worst moods. And instead received just the opposite. All his senses, awareness of his surroundings, Hawke lying half-conscious, the humid air, the salt on his skin, blotted out by some soft, fine place. A place where only he existed, until he let Dorian in. Urged Dorian to take him and use him. It didn’t hurt, not at all. Instead it was bliss. He felt perfect. Felt vulnerable. Felt forgiven.

“I know—I _know_ —how awful it was,” Dorian says to him. “You don’t have to do it. Of course you don’t. We can look for another way.”

The worst of it was afterward. Fenris came out of the trance feeling fragile and afraid and—the most awful part—with an unendurable need to be touched. By anyone, really, but mostly the one who’d done this to him. The _Tevinter_. All of this without any basis at all, but reasoning with himself didn’t help, only made him start to believe that, because it wouldn’t go away, his reasoning was wrong and he really _did_ feel these things deep down.

Which wasn’t true. He isn’t fragile or afraid, and he doesn’t _need_ anyone. But this awful architecture that Danarius build inside him obviates all that. He was fortunate that Danarius’s adjusted reconstruction of the ancient ritual was flawed, and his master could never access this terrible, powerful part of him. Had he done so, Fenris would never have run. Never have wanted to, Fog Warriors or no.

“You have said there is no other way. I will do this.” Much as he dreads it, and he slips his hand into Hawke’s. “Only…give me a moment.”

“Of course.” Dorian steps back. “Take as much time as you like.”

Fenris drags Hawke to the other side of the room, and Hawke doesn’t need any prompting, simply wraps Fenris up in his broad arms and kisses his hair. “I’m sorry you have to do this.” 

“Yes, well. I don’t appear to have much choice in the matter.” He turns his face into Hawke’s shoulder. 

“I’ll be there. I’ll take you somewhere after, so you can sleep it off.” 

Then Hawke starts rubbing his back, which is extraordinarily comforting. Fenris stands there and wishes that he could stay like this for the rest of the afternoon, that he didn’t have to go over and let a Tevinter mage manipulate him with a touch not physical but still more intimate than that of any lover. Although afterward it feels less like he’s been caressed and more like he’s been cracked open, as he saw Hawke do with the prawns he fished up during their travels—the shell peeled off, the soft insides exposed to the dry, open air. 

Fenris breaks Hawke’s embrace, before he can talk himself out of this. “Best just to get it over with.”

Anders is sitting in a wooden chair at a table stacked with books, his hands clasped together between his knees. He looks up as Fenris returns. “I—thank you for doing this. And—I’m sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize.” He sits across from Anders. “That my markings tore a hole in the Veil is hardly your fault.”

Cullen goes down the stairs to stand by the door and ward off any mages who might be curious about the mangled spot in the Veil that’s sitting upstairs, or the coming miraculous repair. Dorian, meanwhile, heaves a nervous sigh. “Are you ready?”

“No.” Fenris lays his arm on the table. “But it does not matter. Begin.”

So Dorian reaches out and rests a hand on his wrist. 

Fenris isn’t even aware of his lyrium reacting, and stops thinking about that a second later, when the dusty room falls away, the space around him shedding its clutter until he is resting in some wide-open space under a sky less cruel than the one he knows, more a shelter than an unknown void. There was someone with him, he thinks, but there is not anymore. Until—

—Dorian calls out, from every direction. _Will you let me in?_

Of course. Of course. Fenris relaxes back, lies as he did before, open and waiting. As he did before? A snag digs into him—a memory, of someplace that isn’t here, someplace humid that was grimy and dark and tasted of salt. He feels Dorian coming now, growing closer, but an angry part of him, a vicious part that doesn’t belong in this place, says _wrong, stop, stop him._ For a moment it claws to the fore, and struggles, snarling—

Fenris lurches, shaking the table, toppling a pile of books. The air is dusty and cold all of a sudden, and he coughs, shivering. There’s a hand resting on his wrist, and he reaches out to take it, twines his fingers together with—

—the damned Tevinter, and he jerks his hand away, holding it as if burned. Dorian is rubbing his eyes, blinking as if roused from a long sleep. “That was new.”

Fenris crushes his hand to his chest so he does not reach out again, despite the nagging urge. “What happened?”

“You fought me.” Dorian grins. “That’s good! You didn’t do that last time!”

Fenris sits back. It is heartening to know that he _can_ fight—that is the greatest gift he has found as a free man, the ability to _fight back_ —but here it is not very helpful. He lays his arm out once more. “Try again.”

So Dorian grasps his wrist, and the cluttered room tilts off into nothingness. The sky descends around him as a bower, and he rests under it, alone but sensing it will not be that way for long. 

And it isn’t. A voice calls out. _Will you let me in?_

Yes. Fenris throws open the gates with joy, welcomes Dorian into this place where—

—where he will be used. Fenris chokes on the thought, buckles and falls. This should not be happening. No one else should be here. 

_I need to do it. I need to help your friend. I won’t hurt you._

The problem is not hurting. Just the opposite. Fenris isn’t sure who this friend is but believes Dorian anyway. This place may be only his but he is utterly without mooring here. _Fine_ , he thinks. _Do what you must_. 

Then Dorian touches him, and any truculent misgivings fall away. 

As it should be. That’s what comes first, a sense of rightness, that there _should_ be someone else to dredge up all the parts of him that he—shame—has left to sit, unused, wasted. He realizes now he should have done this before, many years ago. Should have let Danarius in, all those times he tried and failed, should have found a way despite not knowing how or even where to begin. As he thinks this Dorian’s presence recoils. _No, don’t—this was your choice. You’re not a tool, you’re a person._

But Fenris has lost track of what’s happening, and he does not respond.

Fasta vass _. All right, I’m sorry about this. After I’ve finished fixing Anders, you have my permission to throw me out the highest window in the tower._

Then he slips his fingers into the cracks, and Fenris breaks open. 

Deeper this time, and firmer. For a moment Fenris is afraid, but he trusts Dorian absolutely, and forces himself to remain still. Again Dorian’s touch is infinitely tender, though even the merest brush makes Fenris shiver, uncontrolled. Dorian folds away the veils and shrouds that conceal the hidden parts of him, reveals for the first time facets that flash, brilliant, mirror-smooth and untarnished by wear or hard use. Fenris is exposed, helpless here, but he is not afraid anymore except for the minor thrill that rushes through him, from the soles of his feet all the way up to his throat. Dorian moves with utter confidence, inspecting Fenris, categorizing him, deciding which parts are useful and which may be passed over. Fenris thinks for a moment of trying to help but does not. His inexpert fumbling will only get in the way.

Then Dorian— _grips_ him.

As a hand around the hilt of a weapon, although Fenris feels it as a hand around his neck. Not crushing him, although it could, easily, and Fenris doesn’t fight—would never fight against a touch that shelters him with such care—but, defenseless as he is, he puts forth a plea— _don’t—don’t hurt me—_

_I won’t, I promise you._

Of course. How could he have questioned— _I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything._

_You shouldn’t—oh, I hope one day the Maker can forgive me for this. I don’t expect you to, not to worry._

Fenris doesn’t understand, but he’s already spoken too much, so he keeps his peace. 

After that Dorian… _uses_ him. The process goes on for some time, during which Fenris grows accustomed to Dorian’s presence in him, the authority of his touch tempered by a gentleness which Fenris welcomes, needs, fears losing. The helplessness begins to fade, but only because he is not alone, only because Dorian shields him. He tries to draw closer, yet senses Dorian shying away. So Fenris stops, fearing he has caused some offense. 

Then Dorian begins to withdraw. 

Fenris stumbles after him, a pathetic gesture, he knows, but he does not want to be alone again here, needs to be protected. _Don’t leave, don’t leave me—_

Something snaps. The world rushes in around him, the table under his arms, the dusty air, the stacks of books crowding him in. He pushes himself to his feet, finds Dorian in his tilting vision, staggers forward.

Someone intercepts him. Someone tall. Hawke. “Fenris?” Two strong hands grasp his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

Fenris shivers, hugging himself, and his eyes prick with tears—from the cold, perhaps, but more the loss of something vital, something he cannot name. Whatever it is, he feels hollowed out, fragile as an eggshell already cracked. So he steps forward, seeking someone to keep him safe, and Hawke embraces him, steadying him against even the wintry draft that threatens to shatter him into a thousand shards that might be ground underfoot, unnoticed, leaving no more than a scattering of fine dust that gathers in the grain of the wood floor—

The truth of the situation reveals itself at last.

Fenris shoves Hawke away with enough force not only to break the embrace but to send Hawke staggering, his perfect balance overcome. He smacks into a wooden pillar but recovers quickly and drifts out to the side—with trademark subtlety, but Fenris has known him too long, knows he’s positioning himself as a human shield for the more delicate members of the gathered company—the two mages. Fenris tightens his jaw in exasperation. “There is no need to do that. I am not dangerous.”

Everyone visibly relaxes, except for Dorian, who still grips the pillar beside him as if attempting to crush it to pulp. Fenris tries to sort out what he feels, to explain the situation. “I’m not—“ His thoughts tangle, and he tries again. “I am not like this.”

Not fragile, not beholden to some simpering need to be held. He does not _need._ Yet right now, standing in the tower with the cold air brushing his face, he feels not only vulnerable but _useless_ , as if incomplete without the touch of another. The lack of contact is too much to bear, and he takes a halting step toward Hawke before he can stop himself again. His lip curls with self-disgust. 

Hawke holds his hands out, palms-up. A gesture of peace. “Do you remember that time Aveline had a _really_ bad day, and we convinced her to come get drunk with us at the Hanged Man? And a few mugs later she started trying to pick fights with everyone else in the entire bloody tavern?”

Fenris blinks. He does remember. Her cheeks were flushed a deep rosy red, and she was jabbing her finger in the face of anyone who had the misfortune to drift too close, asking them what they were doing there and accusing them of hiding something from her. Hawke, with mild panic, enlisted Fenris’s help in keeping her out of trouble until Donnic got off shift and was free to keep watch. 

“That’s sort of how I’m seeing this,” Hawke continues. “You’re not yourself, but until you are, I’m happy to wait it out with you.”

That does make Fenris feel better, although he wishes he were drunk instead. That would make this afternoon much less unpleasant. So he breaks the straining bands holding him back and goes to Hawke, who wraps an arm around his waist and kisses him. The need settles a little, no longer threatening to crack his brittle body to pieces, and he exhales, eager to put this embarrassing display behind him. “Did it work?”

“Yes.”

Anders is staring at his hands with an absent smile on his face. “It’s—not _fixed,_ but it’s fixed enough. I—I should be safe. I won’t be possessed again. Thank you, truly.”

Then that’s it. He’s safe. He doesn’t have to die—

—or perhaps he does, Fenris supposes. It depends on the Inquisitor’s decision. And—Fenris looks up. The unbridled joy he’s seen in Hawke for the past week is muted here, despite this victory. Because Hawke still has work to do before Anders is free. 

“I’m sorry you had to do that.” Anders glances between Fenris and Dorian. “Was—was it really that awful?”

“Oh, not for me. For me it was quite easy.” Dorian’s face is set in a grimace that cuts in half his airy tone. “It’s just horribly invasive and radically unjust for the other party. My own nauseation is purely moral. Although I have little trouble imagining the type of person who’d enjoy it.” He sighs. “Maker knows I met plenty of them in Tevinter.”

“It is all right,” Fenris tells Anders, his voice, curse him, still trembling. “If the process had the intended effect, then I do not regret having done it.”

“Well, then,” Cullen cuts in. “If you’re not in danger of waking up possessed in the middle of the night and killing some unsuspecting passer-by, then there’s nothing standing in the way of your sentencing.” He sweeps down the stairs. “There will be guards posted outside your door, in case you still harbor thoughts of escape. I’ll go speak to the Inquisitor now.”

Hawke tenses against Fenris, takes a half-step forward. But he stays where he is. Because he wants to stop Cullen from delivering the news alone, lest he influence the Inquisitor’s decision—but Fenris’s fingers are still balled in the back of his coat. _Venhedis._ Fenris releases him, squirms away. “It’s—it’s all right, you can go.”

“No.” Hawke grasps his hand, kisses him. “I don’t need to speak with her now. I’ll stay.”

A relief, despite Fenris’s guilt at the fact. Even the scant few seconds of separation were nearly enough to overwhelm him. He quashes another swell of anger, another pang of self-disgust. _I am not like this,_ he reminds himself.

“Is Varric really here?” Anders asks.

“I believe so,” Dorian answers. “He spends a lot of time in Kirkwall these days, but last I heard he was coming back to Skyhold for a bit. Would you like me to summon him?”

Anders leans forward, eager, then seems to remember something, and slumps. “Never mind. Cullen will never allow it. No one’s supposed to know I’m here.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hawke says brightly. “Dorian, you can bring Varric up. If Cullen gets angry at you for telling him about this, say I did it.”

“Gladly.” Dorian heaves a sigh. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d just like to make _sure_ I actually fixed things instead of, you know, throwing open the gates or something equally disastrous.”

Fenris presses himself closer against Hawke’s side. He doesn’t want to simply flee, to display that sort of fragility, yet even the presence of Anders and the Tevinter makes him feel as if he’s under fire—

“I think we’ll find ourselves some quarters.” Hawke squeezes Fenris’s hand. He must have sensed the truth of it. “I’ll come by later, is that all right?”

“Er—yes!” Anders replies. “Please.”

“Good. Have fun with Varric, but don’t let him swindle you into a game of Wicked Grace. I swear, he’s twice as good at cheating now as he was in Kirkwall.”

Anders half-grins. “Considering I could never beat him before, I think I will stay away.”

Fenris detaches himself from Hawke as they descend the tower, although their hands stay locked together. A lifeline. Hawke finds the steward, who assigns them a room above the gardens. It’s tiny, but Fenris doesn’t mind. After so much time spent traveling, a roof and a real bed are unimaginable luxuries.

As soon as the door swings closed Fenris peels Hawke’s coat off him, lifts the hem of his shirt. But Hawke grasps his arms gently. “Fenris—slow down a moment.”

Fenris realizes what Hawke is thinking and hastens to correct him. “No! I just—“ How to say this? That if he were cast into the Void, left alone and driftless, he would fight every twisted creature, every broken, screaming god, and claw his bloody way out if for no other reason than to once more feel the sensation of Hawke’s skin on his own?

“I only want to lie beside you,” he mutters.

So Hawke kisses him, and both their shirts fall to the floor before they slip their boots off and crawl into bed. Fenris hauls himself on top of Hawke, head resting on his shoulder. There. At last, the two of them alone, Hawke warm beneath him. At last he feels safe.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “To keep you from the Inquisitor.”

“Oh, I’m not all that worried,” Hawke says. “Cullen is certainly charismatic, but he has too much integrity. Meanwhile, I’ve got both charisma _and_ an utter lack of scruples.”

Fenris snorts.

“I’ll have to think on what I’m going to say, of course.” Hawke’s chest rises and falls under Fenris as he heaves a great sigh. “But I’m confident I can sway the Inquisitor. Even if she does scare the living daylights out of me.”

It’s true that she is an intimidating woman, and not all that fond of Hawke, either, after he nearly killed an Inquisition prisoner on a personal vendetta. But Fenris suspects she and Hawke are more alike than Hawke would ever admit. 

There’s a knock at the door. Hawke lets out a quiet groan and calls out, “Just a minute.”

Fenris, with great reluctance, slides back to the edge of the bed, freeing Hawke to fish his shirt off the floor and open the door just a crack. Cullen’s voice floats through, although he speaks in a bare murmur so as not to be overheard. Hawke shuts the door and leans back against it, frowning in thought.

“What is it?” Fenris asks.

Hawke rubs his eyes. “They’ve set a time. Anders is to be judged tomorrow at noon.”


	6. Chapter 6

They stay in bed a while longer. Fenris dozes a few times—he has, after all, been getting no more than a few hours’ sleep each night, spending the rest in vigil over Anders. In his periods of wakefulness, he finds himself thinking of the mage, locked up there in that tower like some demon they’ve trapped and barricaded away. 

Hawke is snoring gently. Fenris, still sleepy, kisses his chest. Despite how chaotic and (sometimes) awful things were while they were on the run, they always had each other to fall back to. Without that, Fenris is certain neither of them would still be alive, much less here and happy and planning a future. Who did Anders have in these five years since the Chantry explosion? Who did he have, all that time?

Vengeance, of course. With no alternatives, not even to summon to memory. Not after he pushed them all away, with increasing success, after the demon killed that mage girl. 

Fenris, disgruntled, mumbles to himself, “I shouldn’t have fought with him so much.”

“Hm? What?” Hawke starts, swipes a hand across his mouth.

“Anders. I knew what he was doing, in trying to force us apart. We all knew. I shouldn’t have given in so easily.”

“Oh.” Hawke shifts and begins rubbing Fenris’s back. “Well, he was trying _very_ hard.”

Fenris closes his eyes. “You never gave in.”

“You know me, Fenris. My patience spans aeons.”

Hawke’s calloused palm rubbing his back is extremely comforting. The fevered need has already begun to dissipate—much faster than last time, perhaps because it was satisfied so soon. Fenris wants to stay here until tomorrow morning, but he is beginning to feel hungry. And anyway, there is something he must do before the day is out. So he rises to his knees, provoking a disappointed noise from Hawke. “The sun has begun to set,” he says, nodding at the window. “We should go eat.”

Hawke’s disappointment vanishes in an instant. “Food. I like the sound of that.”

As is their custom, he and Hawke avoid the dining hall and instead go straight to the kitchens for their supper. (The cooks and servers were at first opposed to this arrangement, but Hawke’s aggressive good humor won them over eventually.) As Fenris is filling his plate, he frowns in thought. “Do you think they fed him?”

Hawke snorts. “Cullen certainly didn’t. The Tevinter, maybe.”

“Hm.” With a knife Fenris corrals his food to one half of the plate—there isn’t much—and starts piling the other with samples of the most extravagant dishes. Then they make their way to a hidden alcove in a little-traveled corner of the castle, to a cushioned bench at the foot of a great stained-glass window. The low sun lances straight through it, splashing the opposite wall with hazy shards of color. When they first discovered this place, Hawke spent a good twenty minutes making his fingers into shadow puppets that got caught up in increasingly complex and perilous plots, and by the time the tragedy came to its operatic end, Fenris’s belly hurt from laughing and their food was cold. 

Today they eat in silence. Hawke is no doubt preoccupied with how he’s going to save Anders’s life tomorrow, and Fenris cannot wrench his mind from all the things he should have done while they were in Kirkwall, before the explosion. Still, the meal is a pleasant respite. Fenris gazes down at the courtyard, at the people talking and smiling at each other. It is good to be reminded that despite everything, the world has returned to normal. A new normal, true, but normal all the same. 

Hawke swallows down the last of his wine and sets his cup on his plate. “I think I’m going to ask around some about the Inquisitor. Wouldn’t hurt to get to know her a little better before tomorrow.”

“Very well.” Fenris stands. “I will go bring this to—to the tower.” He remembers at the last second not to say the mage’s name out loud. There is no telling who may overhear. 

“Right. I’ll meet you later.”

Fenris receives some severe frowns as he ferries his half-full plate through the library—no food allowed, he suspects, although no one confronts him. At last he reaches the door to the highest room, where his progress is arrested by two guards, a man and a woman. “I have food for the prisoner.” He lifts the plate. “Please let me through.”

“Can’t do that,” the woman says. “No one’s allowed inside.”

Fenris stares at her for a second. “I was one of those who brought this man here in the first place. Surely I may be allowed simply to bring him sustenance.”

“No you may not.” The man this time. “No one’s allowed inside, not even us. The prisoner will have to go without.”

Fenris takes a calming breath. It’s true that Anders has had two or three meals a day since they recaptured him, but he still looks near-starved. “Is this door locked?”

“Yes it is.” The man stands a little straighter.

“And do either of you have the key?”

“No. On account of we’re not allowed inside. If something happens we’re supposed to report directly to Cullen.” 

“Good. Feel free to do so.” Fenris invokes the lyrium and lets it take him over. He is careful to subsume the plate as well, lest he drop it on the floor. It is small, and the lyrium extends over it easily, as easily as it takes his armor. The guards’ eyes bug, and they shout in alarm, bringing their pikes to bear. Fenris walks through them, and through the wooden door onto the staircase. 

Once inside he releases the lyrium and calls out, “I have brought you supper.”

“Fenris!” Anders appears at the top of the stairs. “I didn’t hear the door.”

“I imagine not.” Fenris climbs the steps and hands him the plate. 

Anders’s eyes light up, and he sits at the table, elbowing aside a stack of papers. “Thank the Maker. I’m so hungry I’d eat a nug.”

Fenris stands by the window and shivers. The fat heating pipes that run up the walls of the library don’t reach this high. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Hm?” Anders swallows. “Oh. It’s not that bad.”

“As you say,” he mutters. 

The sun has dipped down behind the snowy peaks, but its light still bursts out, welling on the undersides of clouds, spreading over the western faces of the mountains, caught here and there on a rocky crag. Fenris gazes across the range. He is very high up. “It must have been lonely.”

There’s no response. He looks over his shoulder. Anders is staring at the near-empty plate. “Yes. Yes, it was.”

“I know that it is difficult.” Fenris leans against the wall. “To have no one near whom you can trust. How it grows so unbearable at times you must turn to those who would hurt you, if only for the companionship.”

“I thought I’d disappointed him,” Anders says softly. “I thought my actions were just, yet to him—the very embodiment of Justice—it wasn’t enough.”

“You could never have satisfied him.” Fenris curls his toes. The stone floor is rather cold. “The world is unjust. That thing would have twisted itself into a demon no matter what you did.”

“Yes. I suppose.”

He doesn’t sound convinced. Fenris sighs. “But the mages are free now, to rule over themselves. That should at least be some comfort.”

“It _should_ be, but—“

Fenris turns. Anders has his head in his hands, and he speaks to the floor. “I don’t feel it. I don’t feel happy, or triumphant, or relieved. It doesn’t make any sense! This is what I wanted for so long, but it’s just—nothing, it’s just something that happened. I should be leaping out of my bloody chair.”

Fenris is about to go over when the lock clicks and the door swings open. 

Ah. Cullen storms up the stairs. “What do you think you’re doing?! When I said no one goes in, I meant _no one_. Even you, Fenris.” 

Cullen is tall and square-jawed and his eyes flash with anger, and Fenris is not the least bit intimidated. It takes more than that. “I was bringing him supper. Had you ordered food sent up to him? At all?”

The anger breaks awkwardly, confusion showing through. That’s a surprise. He’d actually forgotten. “I…” Cullen looks away. “I hadn’t thought of it.”

“Then we are fortunate one of us did,” Fenris says. “Now he will not starve during the night, which, considering his condition, is not so far-fetched. In addition, I am skeptical of this policy of forbidding any visitors at all. It seems more an act of cruelty than one of caution. You know he may be killed tomorrow—you would have him spend his last hours in solitary confinement?”

Anders flinches. Fenris decides he may have overdone it, but Cullen was a templar and knows how malicious their punishments were. He’s confided in Fenris in the past that he does carry guilt about what he did, and what he allowed his comrades to do. The gambit works. Cullen steps back, the tension starting to drain from him. “Fine. You may come up here if you like, and I suppose I can let Dorian through, and Varric.” Then he jabs a finger at Fenris. “But _not_ Hawke. I still don’t trust him.”

Fenris snorts. “I expect forbidding Hawke from this place will be at least as ineffective as forbidding me. Where Hawke wants to go, he will go. Guards and locked doors are are almost beneath his notice.”

“Be that as it may, I’m still going to make him work for it. I know Hawke. Give him an inch and he’ll take all of Thedas.” Cullen turns to go, heading back down the stairs. “But you won’t have trouble from the guards again.”

Then the door swings shut, and he’s gone. 

“Thank you for that.” Anders heaves a sigh. “I can’t believe he’s the head of the second-largest army in Thedas.”

“I can. He is a capable military commander, and he inspires loyalty from his soldiers. As a man, he has his flaws. As we all do, I suppose.”

“Yes, well, his flaws almost got me killed last week,” Anders mutters.

Fenris smiles. “Then it’s a good thing we were there to talk him down.”

“I think that Tevinter mage did most of the talking, actually.”

Fenris’s smile falters. Anders is right, loath as he is to admit it. “You were saying, before Cullen interrupted us…”

_I don’t feel it. I don’t feel happy._

Anders folds his hands between his knees. “I don’t know why,” he whispers. “Why am I numb to this?”

Fenris weaves his way between the stacks of books, stepping over discarded papers, scattered bits of twine. He sits down across from Anders. “After I ran from Danarius, I was, as you describe, cast adrift. I didn’t know how to act, what to think, what to feel. I had been so long under his control that I had no concept of what it was to live as myself—no concept of who I was without him.” Fenris leans forward, lays his hands on the table. “But that didn’t last. Before long I knew plenty of things—I liked to wade in the river on hot days. I didn’t like to stay up very late. I liked people who were thoughtful, who didn’t feel the need to fill the air with trivial conversation. I didn’t like people who wore gaudy clothes, or laughed too loudly.”

Anders comes up with half a grin. “You must have hated the Hanged Man. I’m surprised you were there so much.”

Fenris smiles in return. “Drunkenness brings with it the gift of tolerance. But the point of all this is—I believe it will come back to you. That you will once again feel as you know you should. It only takes time.”

“Time. Lovely.” Anders slumps back in his chair. “Well, if tomorrow doesn’t end with my head rolling off the executioner’s block, then I’ll make sure to work on it.”

“You should trust Hawke,” Fenris tells him. “You know how clever he is. He will see you past this.”

Anders is quiet for a moment. Then: “Thank you. For all of this.”

Fenris nods. “You are welcome.”

——

They stand at the edge of the hall, waiting.

Those gathered are few. Cullen is there. Varric, too, on Hawke’s other side. Dorian past him. Near the front of the room, a severe-looking woman with short black hair. The ambassador standing by the throne, wagging her quill back and forth nervously. A handful of others—mages, templars, a Grand Cleric. Some soldiers, guarding the doors. It is a closed trial. Against the usual policy, but the Inquisitor ordered it, noting that if word got out there would no doubt be attempts on Anders’s life. 

Anders is here.

He stands in the middle of the hall, apart from everyone. His robes hang off his lank frame. His head is bowed, wrists bound before him. 

Fenris tries not to think about how he might be dead before the day is out. 

“Oh, Maker,” Hawke sighs. “I’m going to lose Cullen over this.”

“Whether or not Cullen is lost rests entirely with him,” Fenris replies. “Do not blame yourself for it.”

At last the Inquisitor enters. A small, slight woman, her clothing unadorned, yet somehow it is eminently clear that she is a force to be reckoned with—or perhaps not to be reckoned with, if one values one’s neck. Gazing at her vallaslin, Fenris is struck once again by how much Dalish tattoos resemble his own. She goes to the throne and sits upon it with no ceremony, as if it is only natural that she sit there. What is her name? Fenris tries to remember. Sanaris Lavellan, that was it. 

The ambassador steps forward. “Your Worship, I present for judgement the mage Anders—no known surname—who five years ago destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry, killing, among others, eleven Chantry sisters and Grand Cleric Elthina.”

“The Chantry explosion. Some say that’s what started this whole mess.” She leans back and crosses her legs. “I wasn’t there, so I really can’t speak for that. But I believe we have several eyewitnesses present today. Hmm…” Her eyes rove over the gathered company and linger briefly on Hawke before moving away. Hawke exhales, and Fenris squeezes his hand. He’s never minded making enemies of powerful people, but it does have consequences.

“Commander Cullen.” She beckons. “Why don’t you tell me what you saw that night?”

The consequences being that the first person to speak on the matter will be the one who wants Anders dead.

“Yes, Inquisitor.” Cullen steps forward. “Knight-Commander Meredith had ordered a top-to-bottom search of the Circle tower, and First Enchanter Orsino was refusing to comply…”

Fenris thought he would recall it better. Instead the memory of that night blurs, thickens, and wells up in his mind as a tarry mire of unceasing violence, a wretched murk of killing, and bleeding, and killing again. There were templars at every corner, split-open bodies strewn around them, and worse, abominations, groaning and squealing as they lumbered forward. Cullen tells a somewhat different story—the abominations are present, of course, but he describes great blooms of fire, vicious storms of ice, the brutal impact of spirit energy that passed straight through his armor. Nor does he fail to mention Hawke’s part in it, with Aveline, Fenris, and Anders at his back—Anders, who also killed templars that night. Cullen is no poet, but his stark, straightforward images and his reputation as a paragon of righteousness will no doubt carry weight. There are glances among the spectators, glances and murmurs. 

“All because of him.” Cullen flings out an arm, one accusing finger leveled at Anders. “If he hadn’t blown up the Chantry and killed the Grand Cleric, there might have been a chance to resolve this peacefully.”

“I was under the impression that Meredith had had an iron grip on the city for three full years, and that it had only tightened during that time.” The Inquisitor leans forward. “Despite that, you think there was still a chance for a peaceful resolution?”

“Yes,” Cullen answers, unwavering. “Plenty of templars had begun to get the sense there was something wrong with the Knight-Commander. Given time, we would have figured out she was under the influence of red lyrium. Then all those people wouldn’t have had to die.”

“How many mages did Meredith execute? And how many did she make Tranquil?” The Inquisitor waves her hand. “On a monthly basis, let’s say.”

That gives Cullen pause. But he speaks after a moment. “I would say…two or three Tranquil per month. Executions were much less common.”

“How much less common?”

Fenris can practically see the commander grinding his teeth. “A half-dozen in a year, perhaps.”

“And is this normal for human Circles? You’ll have to pardon me, I’m not familiar.”

He sighs. “No. I’ve only rarely heard of a Circle outside Kirkwall executing anyone. As for Tranquil…a handful each year.”

“And this was going on for her entire period of command?”

Cullen hesitates. “Not so much before Viscount Dumar’s death. But after…yes.”

The Inquisitor frowns. “And in three years, all you had was a _sense_ that something was wrong? How much longer would it have taken for you to uncover the truth of it?”

“I—can’t speculate on that, Inquisitor.” Cullen’s jaw is set. He’s plainly not happy at these accusations of incompetence. But Fenris thinks he’s ready to keep fighting.

The Inquisitor leans back, relaxed as ever. “How many mages did you kill that night, Commander?”

That rouses a murmur of surprise from the attendees. Fenris glances up at Hawke, expecting he’ll be happy about this line of questioning—but instead his eyes are narrowed in anger. Likely remembering what Cullen looked like back then, cutting down unskilled mages as he marched through the streets of Kirkwall with his men. 

“We were following orders,” Cullen growls. “Meredith was the ranking officer. She had the most experience and authority.”

The Inquisitor says nothing, only waits. The rest of the room waits with her. 

At last Cullen draws the silence to an end and answers the question. “I killed nine or ten. I’m not sure if one of them died.”

Only nine or ten. Fenris lifts an eyebrow. He himself killed…more than that, certainly. Close to twenty templars, he thinks.

“And you have never been charged with any crime, is that correct?” the Inquisitor says. “Nor were any other Kirkwall templars.”

“Wh—“ Cullen stumbles over his words, abashed. “We were acting under the Right of Annulment, invoked by our Knight-Commander! To _abstain_ would have been criminal!”

“Do you believe you did the _right_ thing that night?” she asks him. “Or do you feel guilt about it? I know you, Commander, you are a man of impeccable moral character. How you judge the night’s events is a crucial piece of information.”

She’s caught him. Fenris _knows_ about the guilt—Cullen could lie about it, but the Inquisitor has just invoked his moral character, and Fenris doesn’t think he could bring himself to deceive the court. 

“What we did was wrong,” Cullen says, at last, his voice gone dull. “I suppose—there was so much fear in our ranks, of how dangerous the mages were. When we were given the order to kill them—I think we saw it as a chance to protect ourselves. To protect Kirkwall.”

“Hm. Thank you for being honest. You may step back.”

Cullen retreats to the edge of the room. That went…better than expected. Fenris begins to allow himself a tentative hope—

“Of course,” the Inquisitor says offhandedly, “templars did not kill Grand Cleric Elthina.”

Ah. Yes.

“I did read your book, Varric.” She gestures at him. “I understand the accused was possessed at the time. Yet you seemed to shy away from the specifics. Would you care to elaborate now?”

Varric shifts and folds his arms. “To be honest, Inquisitor, I’m not the best person for the job. Hawke knows a lot more about the whole thing than I do.”

The Inquisitor narrows her eyes, her displeasure radiating out, filling the room. “Your Worship,” Hawke says, quietly. “I beg your permission to speak.”

She watches him for a moment, then sighs and beckons. “Fine. Come forward. Let’s see if you can clarify all this.”

So he does, his hand slipping out of Fenris’s grasp. Fenris catches Anders’s eye and gives him a small nod. _Trust Hawke._

Hawke stands in the middle of the room. With Kirkwall foremost on everyone’s mind, his old title lends him power once more, the mantle of Champion reassumed. “It’s hard to convey exactly what it was like, those last few years,” he says. “Without a viscount, Meredith had absolute control over Kirkwall. That much was not in dispute. You have all heard the tales of what went on in the Gallows on her word. You’ve heard of the executions. How many, during her tenure as Knight-Commander? How many died?”

Anders starts, realizes Hawke’s looking at him for an answer. “Er—twenty-eight. She…she killed twenty-eight mages. Publicly, anyway.”

“Twenty-eight deaths.” Hawke addresses the Inquisitor again. “And, on Cullen’s testimony, at least three times that many Tranquil. Including those who had passed their Harrowing. These were _not_ measures of protection. Worse were the acts to which she happily turned a blind eye.” He turns to Cullen. “Were you familiar with Ser Alrik? Did you ever learn of just how many mages he made Tranquil, for his own disgusting purposes?”

Cullen flinches. “Ser Alrik was an evil man,” he snarls. 

“Yes, he was. But no one questioned him. No one questioned Meredith, or any of the other templars. Not the citizens of Kirkwall, not its government, not the Chantry. She railed about demons and temptation and blood magic, and we were all relieved to listen, to pretend we believed her. Mages, _innocent_ mages were being abused, were dying. But, Inquisitor—no one _cared.”_

The room starts murmuring again. The Inquisitor sits perfectly still, waiting. 

“Only Anders,” Hawke continues. “Only Anders, and those few who worked with him to free mages who were in danger. He was already an apostate, yet he risked himself further to save their lives. Do you know what would have happened, if he’d been caught?” Hawke’s voice loses its oratory fullness for a moment, tightens into a razor-edge of desperation. “Do you know what they would’ve done to him?”

Anders hunches into himself. Perhaps thinking of what _was_ done to him, before he became an apostate. He was never very specific, but Fenris could guess. 

“I was afraid of mages.” The desperation is gone. It may have been a ploy. Hard to tell with Hawke. “I would have let all of it go, if Anders hadn’t come to me and asked for help. I can’t imagine the kind of courage that takes. I certainly don’t have it.” A half-smile. “Most accounts also seem to forget the fact that he was a steadfast healer in the worst part of Kirkwall for ten years. He never asked for any payment, either. Lived off donations or gifts. I tried to convince him to move someplace safer, but he wouldn’t.” Hawke takes a moment. “Somehow I’m the one with the title and the fame. But Anders is, without a doubt, a better man than I.”

“A touching testament.” The Inquisitor rests her chin in her hand. “But I have little interest in his character. I asked about the matter of possession.”

“I apologize. I can address that.” Hawke remains unruffled. “He was possessed. A spirit of justice, one that would aid him in ensuring the fair treatment of mages.” _By fighting for the abolishment of Circles,_ Fenris thinks, but Hawke decides not to go into specifics. Smart. It is a rather controversial topic. “I ask you to imagine a spirit of justice, dedicated to the protection of mages, in Knight-Commander Meredith’s Kirkwall.” He allows a few seconds of silence, that all those gathered might picture it. “Do you think it could weather such cruelty? Such tyranny? Do you think it could witness all that, sitting helpless inside an apostate’s body, and _not_ be poisoned by it? A spirit of justice, forced to exist—for _years_ —in a world so profoundly unjust. Yes. It grew twisted.”

The spectators watch Anders now, as if afraid his flesh will erupt into something bubbled and black, that they’ll have to fight off an abomination right here in the main hall. Anders only stares at the floor. 

“So who was at fault? Who allowed this depth of corruption?” Hawke asks. “The spirit saw what was happening, weighed the crime, and found the Chantry guilty. I would not say its reasoning was unsound. The Chantry, after all, is the body of oversight for templars, yet it allowed Meredith to commit unspeakable crimes. The Grand Cleric abstained from taking sides and in doing so sided with the party in power. The sentiment was clear, but the results were even clearer. Meredith’s rule proceeded unchecked.

“I believe your question, Inquisitor, is whether it was the spirit who destroyed the Chantry, or Anders. I do not think they can be so easily separated. Anders…changed, as time went on, as mages kept dying and we all kept allowing it. Those of us close to him saw how the spirit…ate at him. How it invaded his thoughts, replaced them with its own. How it took him away from himself, despite our best efforts. Perhaps he surrendered. Perhaps after so many years he’d lost the strength to fight it. Perhaps it managed to convince him that it was right, and that this was the only way people would finally start listening. Perhaps it _was_ right.” 

A collection of muted gasps. Fenris tightens his jaw. Hawke may be going to far, but he won’t be stopped now. 

“So what happened in Kirkwall?” Hawke ignores the gasps. “Meredith killed mages. The Chantry let her. A spirit of justice witnessed all this and broke under the strain. And it carried out its purpose, however warped that may have been. The Chantry did this to itself, Inquisitor.” The murmurs are so numerous now that Hawke must raise his voice to cut through them. “Anders did not start this war. The spirit preyed upon him, going so far as to seize total control of his body after he fled—that’s how we found him last week. Isn’t that right?”

Now he looks to the Tevinter, who starts. “Er—well, he certainly _seemed_ very possessed. And the Veil—yes. Yes, I believe he had lost control completely.”

“ENOUGH!”

The Inquisitor’s voice booms out. The babble of speech drops away. Hawke opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He dares not speak. 

The Inquisitor waves her hand. “You may step back.”

So Hawke returns, once again taking Fenris’s hand. Fenris glances up at him. “I notice you did not mention that the proportion of blood mages in the Kirkwall Circle was several times higher than it is elsewhere.”

“As a reaction to Meredith’s practices, no doubt,” Hawke replies.

Fenris nods. “Of course.”

Hawke lets out a sigh. “No, I didn’t mention it.”

The Inquisitor drums her fingers on the arm of her chair, thinking. Again the room waits, beholden to her utterly. At last she beckons, one more time. “Anders. Come forward.”

Anders hesitates, then approaches, his eyes still cast down.

“Dorian has led me to believe that you are no longer possessed,” she says. “Is that true?”

“Yes. Your Worship.”

“So tell me—if you were back in Kirkwall, but as you are now, without a spirit inside you. Would you do it again? Destroy the Chantry?”

He looks up, surprised, and then his brow furrows in thought. “I…I’d forgotten what it was like to have my own thoughts. It’s been so long. If I were back there? And Meredith were still in power? If there had been a way to do it without killing anyone—but no one was listening, even…” He trails off. Once more the hall is silent, but for the faint sounds of distant conversations deeper within Skyhold. At last Anders shakes his head. “I don’t know. I really can’t say. I don’t know how much was me, and how much was Justice.”

“Hm. Then I have one final question before I render my judgement.”

Hawke squeezes Fenris’s hand so tight Fenris is half-afraid he’ll end up with a broken finger. “Hawke,” he murmurs.

The grip relaxes. “Sorry.”

“If you were free to roam without fear of capture or reprisal—if all of Thedas suddenly forgot about the Chantry explosion, and you could do anything you wanted,” the Inquisitor says. “What would you do now?”

Anders shrugs. “Heal, I suppose. Find places that are in need of a healer. Things haven’t quite settled out yet, I’d wager there’s plenty.”

“Heal, eh? That’s rather altruistic of you.”

“I don’t know about that. I do enjoy it, so I wouldn’t be sacrificing much. And I am good at it.”

“All right.” She stands, clasps her hands behind her back. 

“Anders.” Her voice projects sonorous and full through the hall, emanating from her tiny frame. “Five years ago you destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry, directly causing the death of Grand Cleric Elthina, eleven Chantry sisters, and—if I remember correctly—several late-night worshippers and passers-by. Some say a demon controlled you. Some say you started a war. Some say the war was necessary.

“Thedas has not forgiven you. As the leader of the Inquisition, it would be irresponsible of me to free you of consequences.”

Anders bows his head. Hawke starts to step forward, then falls still. 

“However, I have not heard sufficient evidence that you acted as yourself, rather than being coerced by a spirit. Or a demon, or something of both. I also find hard to believe this widespread notion that the explosion was the cause of the mage-templar conflict. As I understand it, the clash was inevitable, although the spark of the explosion did build it into a violent inferno rather than a controlled blaze. 

“In light of all this— _in light of all this—“_ Even the Inquisitor’s forceful presence cannot stay the eruptions of conversation. “—my decision is as follows: you will not be executed. You will not be made Tranquil. But your life belongs to the Inquisition now. You will serve our interests and _only_ our interests. You will be assigned to a senior mage who will act as supervisor. They will take you to carry out our mission abroad—if you remain at Skyhold, your life will no doubt be in danger.”

“I can’t believe it,” Hawke murmurs, grinning. “She’s bloody letting him go.”

“If you are insubordinate or attempt escape, you will be subject to further punishment, and I can assure you it _will_ be much more severe. Prepare yourself to depart. You will be leaving tonight.” She nods at the pair of guards beside her throne. “Take him away.”

Hawke rushes forward, dragging with him an unsuspecting Fenris, who must strive to keep up lest his shoulder be torn from its socket. By the time they cross the hall the guards have already pulled Anders’s hood up, and they hold him by the arms. Hawke looks to the Inquisitor, as do the guards; she waves her hand. “Give them a moment.” 

So they release Anders, and Hawke embraces him. “You’re not going to be killed!”

Anders lets out a startled laugh. “Yes, I’m rather pleased about that as well.” 

Hawke steps back. “I’ll find you again. I promise.”

“I hope so.” Anders hesitates. “I—I missed you. More than you’d believe.” 

“I missed you too.” Hawke smiles. Are those— _tears_ in his eyes? Can’t be. Rowan Hawke does not cry.

“All right, get him moving.” That’s the Inquisitor, and her guards take hold of Anders again, guiding him back toward the tower. 

Fenris watches him go. It’s over. Anders is all right. Anders will live. 

“ ‘The Chantry did this to itself.’ “ The Inquisitor grins up at Hawke. “That was a good one.”

“Thought you might like that.” Hawke nods at her respectfully. 

“A big risk on your part. But it paid off. I did like it, quite a bit. Not that I’m going to _tell_ anyone, of course,” she says. “And some others definitely didn’t. I don’t know if Cullen will ever speak to you again.”

Hawke’s smile disappears. “Yes. I—do regret that.”

“Ah, who knows.” She shrugs. “Maybe he’ll come around. Speaking of which, I should go deal with him.”

“Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

She walks off, cool as ever. Fenris stares. “What was all that about?”

A heavy sigh. “I think the Inquisitor and I have reached an understanding.”

“And—that’s a bad thing?”

“You know that phrase ‘keep your enemies closer?’ Always thought that was the most idiotic sentiment. Why would you want to stand closer to a bear? It’s just going to eat you.”

Fenris nods. He still isn’t sure what’s going on, but he trusts Hawke. “Will we see Anders again before he leaves?”

“Doubt it. They’ll probably try to smuggle him out as quick as possible. Wouldn’t want any assassination attempts inside Skyhold.”

Fenris is quiet for a moment. “Will we see him again?”

Hawke pulls Fenris closer and kisses him. “I hope we will.”

——

_A few months later…_

 

Fenris sizes up his foe, squeezes the haft of his axe. His target looks sturdy. A powerful strike, then, rather than a precise one. He grips with both hands at the far end of the handle, lifts the axe above his head, and swings. 

The blade buries itself in the tree root with a satisfying _thunk._

There’s an echoing _thunk_ from his right, where Aveline works on a stump of her own. Fenris at first suggested combining their efforts to focus on one at a time, but after his backswing nearly took Aveline’s arm off they decided to split up. To his left Hawke sits digging at the roots of yet another stump. There are many, scattered across the plot, although the trees were beeches, thin, and the removal will not be so difficult. Across from Hawke sits Saravh, digging with a trowel of her own. Aveline and Donnic made the adoption official before the winter—a mere formality, really. They had fostered her for nearly two years before that, but it was only after Fenris and Varric visited that Aveline finally admitted to herself she had no intention of giving Saravh up to another family. The girl is nine years old now, wiry and dark, her abundant curls of hair stuffed back into an unruly ponytail. 

“Maker, it’s _hot,”_ Hawke moans. 

It is. Hawke and Fenris have both stripped to their trousers, and Aveline’s shirt is tied up under her bust, displaying her well-defined stomach. Fenris doesn’t mind the heat, but Hawke is miserable, jabbing at the earth listlessly with a trowel dwarfed in his broad hand. Fenris watches the sweat roll down his muscular back. No, the heat isn’t entirely unpleasant—might even be a good thing, in some ways…

Saravh shoots to her feet, her dress covered in dirt. “Come on, Uncle Hawke, let’s go swimming!”

Aveline freezes mid-swing and looks up sharply. “What did you just call him?”

Saravh blinks. “Uncle Hawke?”

“What in the world—“ Aveline glares at Hawke. “Did you tell her to call you that?”

Hawke winces, peers over his shoulder. “…yes?”

“And you’re Uncle Fenris!” Saravh runs forward and wraps her arms around Fenris’s waist. 

Fenris halts, glances over at Aveline, meets her warning gaze. He opens his mouth, ventures a tentative “No?”

Aveline lets out a resigned sigh. “Doesn’t matter. It’s too late anyway.”

Hawke and Saravh fling themselves into the lazy river with a pair of wild whoops. Fenris continues toiling away, as does Aveline. Someone has to do the work, or they’ll be here for weeks. Some strands of hair have begun to fall in his face, so he reties it, up off his neck. Before long they break for lunch, Saravh laying out on the grass so her dress will dry, while Hawke stands shin-deep in the river as he wolfs down his salted beef and bread. Fenris helps Aveline pick a splinter out of her hand. “Should have brought gloves,” she mutters.

“I don't suppose you need any help?”

Hawke looks up.

Anders is heading up the river, a walking stick in one hand, a heavy pack on his back. Hawke’s already running to him. Saravh sits up and whispers to Aveline, “Is that another uncle?” only to receive an aghast _“no!”_ in response. 

As Anders approaches, Fenris can see that he’s not so thin anymore, and the color has returned to his face. He even looks younger than he did the last time they spoke—a proper forty-three years. But something is amiss here— “Anders, please tell me you did not run from your supervisor.”

“Oh, no, she’s staying a few leagues south of here. Said she didn’t mind if I went to visit some friends.” 

Fenris raises an eyebrow. “She…allows you that much lenience? The Inquisitor seemed much harsher in her terms.”

Anders snorts. “Well, as I’ve discovered since my sentencing, the Inquisitor doesn’t especially care. She only kept me on instead of letting me go free because she wanted an extra pair of hands working for her.”

Hawke nods. “That was the sense I got. She _really_ hates the Chantry.”

Something Fenris missed at the time, although it makes sense. She is, after all, Dalish, and she does not seem to appreciate competition for her authority. “Anders. It’s been a while,” Aveline says. “Hawke told me about what happened.”

It is extremely bizarre to see Anders and Aveline in the same place again, and it is only Saravh’s presence that reminds Fenris this is real, not some cobbled-together memory. The conversation flows as easily as the river beside them, and Fenris relaxes into it. It’s still hard to believe things could be this… _good_ , again. He takes a sip of currant wine and hopes distantly that no more world-shaking events come crashing down on them, to throw them all once more into chaos.

But he supposes it doesn’t matter. There is peace to be had, and they will find it again. Whatever it takes.


End file.
